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p. 327 


Then she was in his arms 



0 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER 


HER STORY 



FRANK FRANKFORT MOORE 

H 

AUTHOR OF 

I FORBID THE BANNS, DAIREEN, A GRAY EYE OR SO, ETC. 


PoLONirs. — “ What a treasure had he, my lord?” 
Hamlet. — “ Why, ‘ One Fair Daughter.’ ” 







CHICAGO : 

K. A. WEEKS & COMPANY, 

521-531 Wabash Ave. 

A. I 



Copyright, 1894 , 

By D. Al’PLETOM AND COMPANY. 


Copyright, 189 . 5 , 

By E. a. weeks & COMPANY. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK THE FIRST. 

THE MAIDEN PLANS. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Gives some account of the departure of a father 1 

II. — Shows how occasionally fair daughters make fair 

friends 8 

III. — Tells how a young woman of imagination may have 

her own way 16 

IV. — Describes a spring landscape as seen through the 

EYES OF A YOUNG WOMAN 21 

V. — Accounts for the agitation of a young woman who 

WAS USUALLY SELF-POSSESSED . . . .28 

VI. — Relates how the imagination of a young woman may 

LEAD TO THANKFULNESS, AND ALSO TO TERROR . 36 

VII. — Bears upon the making of engagements in advance 

WITH Providence and others . . . .43 

VIII. — States how a young woman went out in the dark 

AND returned IN THE MOONLIGHT . . .47 

IX. — Concerns a maiden’s prayer, and how it was an- 
swered 52 

X. — Marks the advance of a young woman towards 

FREEDOM 58 

XI. — Contains some account of a conversation between 

ONE WHO HOPES AND ONE WHO PERCEIVES . . 62 

XII. — Illustrates the ease with which the process of 

BEATIFICATION CAN BE ACCOMPLISHED . . .69 

XIII. — Deals exclusively with the reflections of a young 

(iii) 


WOMAN WITH PLANS 


75 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XIV. — Acquaints a reader with some views regarding 

IjOVE •••••••«• 

XV. — Quotes from the p^an of the prophetess with the 

TIMBREL ......... 

XVI. — Records the following up of a first victory, and 
also , Lady Haven’s views on the legitimate 

CAE/EEKf «•••••••• 

BOOK THE SECOND. 

X THE MAN APPEARS. 

I. — Attempts to assign to the raconteur a position 
in a society of varied experiences . 

II. — Details of the further processes by which a 

YOUNG WOMAN WORKS OUT HER OWN FREEDOM . 

III. — Repeats a conversation between two persons on 

WHAT IS strictly A HORTICULTURAL QUESTION . 

IV. — Begins with an apology and ends with a ques- 

tion 

V. — Hopes to make a reader aware of the existence 

OF A RATHER IMPORTANT ELEMENT IN PhILIPPA’s 

nature 

VI. — Returns to the plans which Philippa had en- 
deavoured TO mature for her own advan- 

TAGEi ••••••••« 

VII. — Includes the scowl of an insignificant poet 

VIII. — Leaves Philippa in tears after hearing a story 

WITH WHICH she HAD PREVIOUSLY BEEN AC- 
QUAINTED 

IX. — Records another prayer which cajie from Phi- 
lippa’s HEART 

X. — Notices the mood of a man of many experiences 

XI. — Tends to a reflection on the ease with which 
AN episode of the PAST MAY BECOME AN INFLU- 
ENCE IN THE PRESENT 

XII. — Makes a reader aware of what happened in the 

FACE OF THE DAWN 

XIII. — Puts in prominence Lord Sandycliffe’s conclu- 

sions 

XIV. — Refers exclusively to the case of Mr. Wicks 


PAGE 

80 

80 

90 

102 

109 

116 

121 

125 

132 

139 

146 

153 

160 

166 

173 

179 

188 


CONTENTS. 


V 


CHAPTER 

XV. — Commences with a hope, but ends with a sugges- 
tion OF orange blossom 

XVI. — Provides for the future of the two young 

WOMEN 

XVII. — Brings Philippa to a feast, during which her 

HEART sings ANOTHER P.EAN . . . . 

XVIII. — Rehearses the song of the bower, which ends 

IN A SOB 


BOOK THE THIRD. 

THE WOMAN ACTS. 

I. — Is MEANT TO SHOW THAT WITHOUT SELF-POSSESSION 
THE MOST ACCOMPLISHED WOMAN IS POWERLESS 

II. — Commences with a question and ends with a 

SORT OF ANSWER 

III. — Carries a reader over a crisis .... 

IV. — Brings a man of the world into the studio of a 

painter and sends HIM AWAY FROM IT MERRY 

V. — Records some trite conversations, and an ar- 
tist’s account of a monument 

VI. — Exhibits the man of art in front of a blank 

CANVAS 

VII. — Tries to show how a man of art changes into 

A man of action 

VIII. — Demonstrates how completely art may become 

subordinate to action 

IX. — Refers mainly to the annihilation of the ques- 
tions BY THE QUEST 

X. — Gives a circumstantial account of how a young 

WOMAN KEPT HER EYES FIXED UPON A CONVENT 
THOUGH THERE WAS A MAN BESIDE HER . 

XI. — Quotes an opinion regarding the artistic tem- 
perament, AND GIVES AN EXAMPLE OF ANOTHER 

XII. — Hastens to describe a return that was looked 

FOR AND ANOTHER 

XIII. — Clears up a good deal that seemed mysteri- 

ous 

XIV. — Contrasts the ungracious exit of one lover 

WITH THE opportune ENTRANCE OF ANOTHER . 


PAGE 

195 

201 

207 

213 


220 

230 

23G 

245 

252 

260 

2GG 

271 

278 

285 

291 

298 

307 

314 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XV. — Repeats the account that a lady gives op a 

MENAGE OF TWO CANDLESTICKS . . . . 

XVI. — Introduces a bundle of myrrh, and concludes 

THE STORY OF A WOMAN, WITH A WORD OR TWO 
REGARDING ANGELS 


PAGE 

819 

326 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


BOOK THE FIRST. 

THE MAIDEN PLANS, 


CHAPTER I. 

GIVES SOME ACCOUNT OF THE DEPARTURE OF A FATHER. 

A British adaptation of that subtle figure of speech 
known as irony has now and again been employed by the 
mercantile marine in the naming of certain places. 
When a boat’s crew run their craft ashore on a sandy spit 
that grows nothing but aloes, they mark it down on their 
charts as Bay of Plenty; when they are attacked by sav- 
ages within the lagoon, they refer to the island as Saints’ 
Rest; when they reach the estuary of an African river 
where missionary enterprise has made its infiuence felt, 
they deal with it in forecastle anecdotes under the name 
of Wolloper’s Joy; should they go ashore on a Sunday at 
a place where only six- day licences are granted, it be- 
comes notorious throughout the service as Rollicking 
Dock: a master mariner gave its name to the Pacific 
Ocean. It is probably in this spirit of pleasantry that a 
part of the coast of England, appears on the maps as 
Triermain Harbour. 

A very slight knowledge of the region would be suffi- 
cient to make one aware of the utter impossibility of a 
haven being afforded to a vessel by any portion of the 
basaltic coast so called. If there ever was a harbour near 
this place it must have been in the ice period. For miles 

( 1 ) 


2 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


the coast is formed of dark and rugged rocks sloping to 
the sea — rocks and cliffs hollowed with many caves and 
small chasms, but not made smooth by all the years of 
the waves’ buffeting. Upon the sloping rugged sea-line 
the waters are always white; for the full swelling im- 
pulse of the outer deep forces the waves to break them- 
selves upon this broken coast. Just out of reach of the 
hungry sea the rocks are overgrown with coarse thick 
herbage, and further inland this vegetation is more dense, 
until it becomes a moorland of yellow-flowered furze, 
stretching for many miles on every side. Several tracks 
have been made from the coast across this broad waste 
land, one of which leads to the small town of Steeple- 
cross. 

Upon this narrow w^ay on an April^ night two persons 
were walking in the direction of the rocks. One of them 
was a man of a little more than middle age; his .compan- 
ion was a young woman whose years an exj^ert in wom- 
an’s age— if such exists — might guess— as most experts do 
— if light remained enough to see her face, at a trifle over 
twenty. There w^as not another living thing in sight 
upon the shore; the only sounds were the wild cries of a 
flight of sea birds going inland from the coast; and, wdien 
these passed, the whistle of a bittern from a distant marsh. 
Then at intervals there would be heard the sullen win- 
nowing of the wdngs of a gigantic heron making its way 
to the small lake at the further side of the waste land. 
But all these indications of life were heard through the 
hollow sound of the moving of the sea. The sound of the 
sea went on monotonously. It made, as it w-^ere, a grey 
background, against which all other sounds were sil- 
houetted, so to speak. The moon was in its first quarter; 
and thus in the early night it was hanging over the hori- 
zon, shedding its tremulous silver across the weaves, but 
making hardly any light in the air. 

When within about a mile of the sea the man spoke in 
impatience. 

“We must hasten on,” he said. “ We should be at the 
point before the moon sets. Curse this track! is it never 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


3 


going to end ? We have been walking for two hours, and 
yet we don’t seem to have made any progress to speak of. 
You will break down.” 

He had turned his face quickly round to hers. 

” Don’t mind me, father,” the girl answered, pressing 
his arm and looking up to him. “I shall not feel tired 
until you leave me. I can only think that the more 
haste we make the less time we shall be together. But we 
must not run any chance of missing the boat.” 

“No, no; there must be no chance in the matter,” he 
said eagerly, and the thought seemed to make him hurry 
on for a few minutes; it was, however, only a spasmodic 
haste, for he stopped suddenly at the end of a hundred 
yards and caught the girl’s hand. 

“ Good God ! What am I doing ? ” he cried passion- 
ately. “ When I think of what I am doing I feel as if I 
should go mad — go mad, and face all for your sake, Phi- 
lippa. How can I leave you here without a relation — 
without a friend in the world ? ” 

It was too dark for any one to have seen the way the 
girl smiled as she pressed her father’s hand as she looked 
up to his face. 

“ Hush, hush ! you must not say that,” she whispered. 
“ If you say anything like that you speak against me. Was 
it not I who found out this plan for you ? If I had not 
found out this way for you to go, what would remain for 
both of us ? ” 

“ God bless you, my child ! ” cried the man. “ You have 
saved me from ruin, and, worse than that, from the thought 
of having brought ruin upon you. I could face my pros- 
pects if they affected myself alone ; but when I reflect upon 
what the consequence would be to you I feel a coward. 
But, God bless you ! you have saved us ! I give you a 
father’s blessing, — the blessing of him that is ready to 
perish.” 

They had begun to walk on again upon the track, and 
were already within a short distance of the broken coast- 
way. The man could not see the little smile that appeared 
upon the girl’s face so soon as he had spoken his last sen- 


4 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


tence. There was, however, a smile upon her face as they 
hurried on wdth that crescent of the moon before them, so 
low on the horizon that it seemed to be beneath the level 
of the shore. 

The track led down to a small rugged headland called 
Triermain Point. It was at the end of the long line of 
high cliffs, and just where the low sloping coast of rocks 
commenced. The headland itself was hardly worthy of 
the name. It was precipitous at one side, but sloped irreg- 
ularly down to the water on the other. When the man 
and his daughter came to where the little track lost itself 
among the sparse scraggy herbage at the ridge of this point, 
they stopped and looked out seaward in every direction, 
with some anxiety on their faces. It was a fine range of 
sea that was in front of them — a dark moving sea on every 
hand, from where it rushed upon the rugged coast beneath 
them, to where the moon was touching the horizon. 

There the two figures stood motionless. Before them 
the dark sea, behind them the dark moorland waste. 

“We have failed,” said the man bitterly. “I might 
have known that the master of a ship cannot say at what 
part of the coast he will be at a certain hour. Good God ! 
to think of my allowing my life to depend upon a breeze 
of wind ! What a fool I was I What a fool you were, in 
spite of your cleverness ! ” 

“We must wait,” said the girl quietly. “We must wait 
until the vessel comes — and it will come, I know. It may 
be an hour late, but we shall stay until it appears.” 

“ Then we shall remain until morning,” said the man ; 
“ for there will not be sufficient light to allow us to see any- 
thing before the dawn. A fleet of ships might pass with- 
out our being aware of it. We can but return by the way 
w’e came, or else ” 

He turned with a grim laugh to where the waves were 
plunging along the steeper side of the headland. 

“ Why should you talk in that way the last hour we are 
together ? ” said the girl, laying her hand soothingly upon 
his arm, and at the same time bending her head anxiously 
seawards. The moon was becoming dimly red as it neared 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


5 


the water horizon, and its crescent was vague as to its out- 
line. Suddenly the orb was eclipsed, and the girl uttering 
a short cry, pointed towards the place where it had been 
seen. Her father saw that the reason of the disappearance 
of the moon was the approach of a ship with its sails set. 
He could but dimly discern the dark hull in the midst of 
the dark waters, but in a moment he caught a glimpse of 
a very small light on the deck. Then he heard the flap- 
ping of the sails as the vessel was brought up to the wind, 
and the rattle of the ropes, and the creaking of the blocks 
as the sailors squared the yards and hauled certain 
sheets to windward, so that the craft lay to opposite the 
point. 

Tile moment that all was quiet again the small light 
on the deck was brought over to the main shrouds near- 
est the shore, and a signal made by eclipsing it three times. 

The girl caught her father’s arm, though not in eager- 
ness, so soon as the signal had been made. 

“We are safe,” she whispered. “ That is the ship Bird 
of Passage. 

Her father knelt on the summit of the rock and struck 
a light, the girl shading it with her cloak; then a small 
lantern was lifted, the ship’s signal responded to, and all 
became dark once more, only they could hear the sounds 
aboard the ship of the low^ering of a boat. They waited 
without a word until the dip of the oars came, and the 
regular creaking of the rowlocks. 

“ I am saved— we are saved,” said the man, putting his 
arm around his daughter. “ And it is all due to you. 
Everything seems to have favoured your wonderful plan : 
out of the mouth of babes — the weak things of the earth 
are chosen to confound — to — to— confound those fellows 
rowing so noisily ! Have they never heard of the coast- 
guard ? Ah yes, my child if I had not had confidence in 
you and told you all, I should now be ” 

“ But you trusted me ; and I knew I should find a way 
of escape for you — for us.’’ 

“And what a way, too!” said the man. “Who but 
you would have thought of the Bird of Passage picking 


6 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


me up here ? Who but you would have thought of mak- 
ing such use of ” He stopped suddenly, and in the 

pause the heat of the oars of the approaching boat was 
heard more distinctly. A new thought seemed to have 
struck him. He did not finish his sentence, but caught 
the girl’s arm, saying : 

“ But if he should recover ? God forbid that he should 
recover ! ” 

“Don’t think of it,” she answered assuringly. “The 
good old doctor said that a few days at the very utmost 
would see the end. I told you what a friend I made of 
the doctor.” 

“ You do of every one — every one who is a stranger. 
Is it your hair or your beautiful soul ? Ah ! in leaving 
you I am only sustained by the thought that your wisdom 
will prevent your needing the guardianship of relatives. 
God bless you, my child! You have put the two hundred 
pounds in a safe place ? Heaven keep my child from all 
danger I It is not a large sum, dear, and I would not ad- 
vise you to tell Thompson that you have anything; he 
may then allow jmu a little if you play your cards well — 
that is, if you show him that you need it. You should not 
suffer for the misdeeds of your father.” 

Again the sound of the oars was heard in the pause ; 
and now the boat was almost under the rocks. 

“ Good-bye, father,” said the girl gently. “ If we do 
not meet again here we shall in ” 

“ A better land, dear, where all the cares of this life, 
my child, will be ” 

“Yes, father, we shall meet in America,” said his 
daughter simply. “ For I shall certainly go out to you 
— yes, when my money is spent.” 

Her father did not complete his sentence. He only 
looked into his daughter’s face for an instant and kissed 
her quietly. 

Thus they parted. The man hurried down the slope 
of the rocks to the leew^ard of the little promontory, and 
then walked along the white edge of the swelling water 
until he had reached a small but deep inlet. Here he 



The girl stood alone on that black ridge of rocks. P. 7. 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


7 


showed his lantern, and there came a voice from the boat, 
which was now only a few dozen yards distant, “ All right, 
sir.” Then in a lower tone, “Ship your oars, men, and 
stand by with a boat-hook in the bow.” 

In a few moments the boat had run up the mouth of 
the little inlet at the rocky point. The man got aboard 
and went astern without a word. The boat was backed 
gently out, then its head was brought round. The words, 
“ Give way, men 1 ” were whispered, and the sailors began 
to row towards the ship. 

To the girl on the ridge of the headland the splashing 
of the blades and the rumbling of the rowlocks became 
gradually less distinct. She waited until both sounds 
were inaudible. In a short time, however, she heard 
the oars being shipped, and then came the sound of the 
sweep of the sails that were released from being hauled to 
windward. The yards that had been backed swung round, 
and she knew that the ship was on her course again. All 
at once, there shone out from the stern the gleam of the 
lantern with which her father had replied to the signal of 
the ship. It shone but once, and was then withdrawn. 
The girl stood alone on that black ridge of rocks. The 
moon had gone down, and there was not a star in the sky. 
She could not discern the outline of even a spar of the 
ship that was bearing her father away. *The whole broad 
sea in front of her was black — black as the wide moorland 
behind her. She waited at that lonely place until the 
shrieks of a flight of seamews were heard through the dark- 
ness. She turned away from the sea, and faced the still- 
ness of the waste land. 

There was no light to be seen at any part of the moor, 
and that lonely girl stood for a moment before she pro- 
ceeded upon the little track. She looked over the breadth 
of darkness, saying quietly: 

“ The world— that is the world before me. Friendless 
and alone I stand in front of it. It is dark, but — there is 
the track. I feel that I shall get through it without fall- 
ing into many pits. Poor father ! you did well to trust 
me. I am your daughter, only not so clumsy as you. I 


8 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


have helped you out of your pit; I must take care that I 
do not fall into another myself.” 

The lonely but certainly trustful girl drew her cloak 
around her, and hurried across the moorland in the direc- 
tion of Steeplecross. 

She had just said good-bye to her only relative; but it 
will have been noticed that she was not so utterly over- 
come with the sense of the desolation of her position as to 
be incapable of seeing the resemblance between her posi- 
tion in front of the moor and her j)lace in front of the 
world. She saw the resemblance, and she felt that she 
was clever to be able to see it — as no doubt she was— in 
that hour of trial. 


CHAPTER II. 

SHOWS HOW OCCASIONALLY FAIR DAUGHTERS MAKF. FAIR 
FRIENDS. . 

It was nearly midnight before the girl had crossed the 
two miles of moorland that lay between the sea and the 
little town of Steeplecross. By its own inhabitants — who 
number certainly three thousand souls, on the liberal es- 
timate of one soul for every inhabitant — and by the 
dwellers in the region round-about within a circuit of sev- 
eral miles, Steeplecross is called a town ; though the people 
living in the important seaport of Utterhaven, who are 
numerically ten times as great as the inhabitants of 
Steeplecross, are accustomed to refer to it as a village. 
But, then, Utterhaven is in the next county; and the next 
county is invariably full of prejudices. 

Steeplecross is somewhat straggling, so that it is diffi- 
cult to know where it begins and where it ends. At one 
quarter of the town are the two mills which have done so 
much to consolidate the commercial standing of Steeple- 
cross, and by their side a small river flows. At the other 
side, there is an old church with the conventional steeple. 

The people of the town of Utterhaven are fond of al- 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


9 


luding to the rustic charms of Steeplecross, and to its 
seclusion. This is very galling to its inhabitants, espe- 
cially those interested in the mills. 

The small inn was situated at a part of the town near- 
est the church. Its chief guests were now usually per- 
sons interested in the corn trade — people who had grain 
to sell, and people who wanted to buy flour from the 
mills. It was never crowded. Though it always admitted 
a guest with some demur, it never was known, even in 
time of greatest pressure, to send any one away. It was 
wonderful how many people it could accommodate when 
hard pressed. A village inn is in its distending capacity 
like a snake ; though the taking in of a single rabbit dis- 
figures the snake, yet it can swallow a deer without injur- 
ing itself. 

It was, as has just been said, almost midnight when 
the girl had crossed the moor and arrived at this inn — it 
was usually called “ the hotel.” Slie was hot and weary 
with her long walk on that uneven track, and she waited 
to allow herself time to become cool before entering the 
house. Suddenly the door of the inn opened, and there 
appeared at it the figure of a tall thin gentleman, wearing 
spectacles, and by his side the landlord, a middle-aged 
stout man, of low stature. 

The girl moved back into the shadow of the wall, while 
the two men spoke together a few sentences; then the 
smaller went into the hall and shut the door, after saying 
“ good-night ” to the other in a low voice. The man who 
had come out was in the act of putting up the collar of 
his coat before walking away, when the girl went hastily 
up to him and stood in front of him. 

The gentleman started. 

“ Dear me. Miss Liscomb,” he said, in a thin slow voice ; 
“you here so late ? It is nearly midnight ! ” 

“ Is it ? ” said the girl listlessly. “ I cannot keep any 
count of time after what you told me this morning, doc- 
tor. In a few days, you said, all would be over, and now 
one day has nearly passed.” 

Her voice began to tremble, and she put her face into 


10 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


her hands. There was a silence which was broken only 
by a little sob. 

The gentleman whom she had called “ doctor ” con- 
tinued pulling up the collar of his coat, only more vigor- 
ously than before. Suddenly his hands dropped from his 
collar. He stood looking at her in perplexity, without 
si)eaking a word, for some moments. 

“ You seem singularly sensitive, my dear young lady,” 
he said at length. “ You are more concerned about the 
fate of this strange gentleman than I could believe even 
his nearest relatives would be.” 

He laid a curious emphasis upon the final words of his 
sentence; and at this infiection the girl removed her 
hands from her face, and looked at him steadily for a mo- 
ment. 

“ What do you mean. Doctor Carsewell ? ” she asked, 
in a weak voice. 

“His nearest relatives, I said. Miss Liscomb.” They 
looked at each other steadily, and at last the girl turned 
aside her glance. 

“ Perhaps I am sensitive,” she said, with a little sigh. 
“ Never mind ; only tell me if there is any sign of his ral- 
lying. Is it merely a matter of days now ? ” 

“ No, Miss Liscomb, not of days ; it was a matter of 
days yesterday. Now it is a matter of hours.” 

She turned away her head without even a sigh, but the 
observant physician did not fail to notice how the hand- 
kerchief that she held in her left hand was trembling. 
He was conscious of being an observant man, and of his 
capacity to make faithful deductions from his observa- 
tions. He smiled now as he saw that quivering piece of 
lace: he could perceive the emotion of the girl by that 
sign as plainly as if he beheld her weeping passionate 
tears upon the ground. 

“Yes, Miss Liscomb ; by to-morrow night that soul shall 
have passed from this world of suffering. The trouble 
which is now upon the man’s mind, making his anguish 
tenfold greater, will have passed beyond the region of 
earthly trouble. His secret will' have died with him.” 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


11 


“ His secret, doctor ? ” Her voice was very faint. 

“The secret that is disturbing his last moments, Miss 
Liscomb. I told you that there was something on this 
strange man’s mind which makes his last hours full of 
agony. If I knew where to find his relatives I should 
think it my duty to communicate with them ; but he 
will not give me any clue by which to discover them. 
He, in fact, admitted to me that Andrews, the name he 
gave at the hotel the day he drove from Utterhaven, was 
assumed. How can his relatives be so inhuman as to 
remain apart from him at this hour? They surely must 
know that he is here.” 

“ You are right, you are right,” she cried ; “ it is inhu- 
man — it is unnatural.” 

She had spoken passionately — almost wildly, with her 
hands clasped, and her cloak flung back, as she gazed up 
to a window of the hotel where a small light was shining. 

The doctor felt the impressiveness of the scene, at the 
outskirts of this little town, in the silence of the night. 
He did not speak until the girl’s head bent once more into 
her still clasped hands. 

“ He is your father. Miss Liscomb ! ” he said in a low 
voice. 

She started violently, and stared at him for a moment, 
then she pressed her left hand upon her forehead, as if striv- 
ing to recollect herself. 

“ What have I said ? ” she cried. “ Did I say any- 
thing ? ” 

“ Ah, my dear young lady, you should not try to de- 
ceive me,” said the doctor, taking her hand and pressing 
it gently. “You cannot deceive me. No confession on 
your part is needed to convince me that my supposition 
was well founded. Your appearance at this place alone 
on the day after his arrival, and the interest you have 
shown ever since I told you of his feeble condition, were 
quite enough to cause my suspicions to be awakened, even 
though I had not then found out that there was a secret 
on the man’s mind, I had long ago guessed the reason of 
your interest in this apparent stranger. Ah, my dear 
2 


12 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


child, you should never try to hide anything from your 
physician. The division between the body and the mind 
is to a man like myself, Miss Liscomb, only as a glass par- 
tition. In dealing with the infirmities of the body, I can- 
not fail to perceive the most subtle mental phenomena.” 

He felt the girl’s hand that he was holding tighten on 
his own. Her head was averted while he was speaking; 
but when his quiet slow voice had ceased, she turned her 
face suddenly, and looked into his, her soft blue eyes all 
tremulous with tears. 

“ I was wrong,” she said gently ; “ I was very wrong 
not to confide in you at once, my dear friend. Oh, I 
might have known that you are not as others who are 
always ready to misconstrue one’s motives, not being able 
to understand a nature that is not similar to their own. 
You will forgive me, will you not ? ” 

She was pressing his hand with all the confidence of a 
little child, looking up beseechingly to his face, as a child 
who has done wrong implores pardon. 

He laid his hand upon her shoulder, and looked into 
her face. It was night, and there was no sound in the 
little town. He was a middle-aged man, and thin; but he 
put his face down to the girl’s, arid kissed her on the 
cheek. He had intended only to let his lips rest upon her 
forehead; but she looked so childlike, that it was indeed 
her cheek he kissed. He did not speak a word in answer 
to her supplication for pardon ; but it could hardly be 
urged against her that she was too precipitate in assuming 
that the doctor had forgiven her for whatever want of 
confidence she may have manifested in regard to him. 

She pressed his hand again, saying, in a tremulous 
voice, “You are so good — so very good, to both of us.’’ 
Once more she glanced up to the window where the lone 
light was shining. “ I cannot treat you with my former 
duplicity. I see now how wrong I was not to trust you 
with all. I will do so now, dear friend.” 

“ My poor child,” said the doctor, with his hand still 
upon her shoulder, “ you are too fatigued ; your feelings 
are worked up to too high a degree for me to permit you 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


13 


to say anything further to-night. You have told me 
enough to make me satisfied that my conjecture was not 
astray. You are his daughter. I guessed all along that 
it was so. Now do not distress yourself. I will take upon 
me to be your physician as v/ell as his, and to prescribe 
for you a lengthened rest to-night. You will tell me all 
your story in the morning. Why, you are quite faint 
with fatigue, my child; where have you been ?” 

“ Where have I been ? ” she repeated, as if striving to 
collect her thoughts to bear upon so unimportant a ques- 
tion. “ I wandered away — away, somewhere, trying to 
rid myself of — of myself. I think I must have been 
there — out there;” and she pointed to the dark moor- 
land. 

“ Bless my soul ! this is had — very bad ! You should 
have told me at first, and I might have set everything 
right. Now, you must take a sleep.” 

“ I will do anything you tell me,” she said meekly. 
“ Only while I am sleeping he may ” 

She turned her head aside, as her voice refused to frame 
another word. 

“ Now, now, this will not do,” cried the doctor. ‘‘You 
must not allow yourself to get into this state of nerv- 
ousness. You must have a sleep in the first place, and 
then ” 

“ But I must see him, doctor,” she said, with passionate 
emphasis. “How could I ever live if I had not seen 
him ? He must learn that I have forgiven him ! ” 

“ And he will. Miss Liscomb; I give you my word for 
it. I shall return as early as possible in the morning, and 
I can promise you that he will he much more composed to 
meet you than he would be now. He is certain — more 
certain than yourself, I fear, my child— of being soothed 
by sleep to-night. Now, you must make an effort to con- 
trol yourself before our good friend, Mr. Barnett.” 

He had knocked lightly at the door of the inn, but the 
girl suddenly caught him by the arm. 

“ How can I explain my return at so late an hour ?” 
ghe asked in a whisper. “ He will not be able to under- 


14 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


stand how I was driven by my thought to seek refuge 
in 

“ Hush, my child, I shall explain,” said the doctor, as 
the landlord opened the door cautiously, and peered out 
into the darkness. Seeing Doctor Carsewell, however, he 
opened the door wide, saying : 

“ Bless me, sir, I didn’t think you had to return.” 

“ And how was Miss Liscornb to return alone, do you 
think, Barnett ? However, here she is, hack safely.” 

“ Miss Liscomh, sir ? ” said the man in surprise. ‘‘ I 
didn’t knoAV she was with your lady, doctor.” 

The doctor gave a little impatient shrug at the mention 
of his lady. 

“ I hope I have not inconvenienced you, Mr. Barnett,” 
said Miss Liscomh gently; “ but we had so much to talk 
about.” 

“ Now, good-night. Miss Liscomh,” said the doctor, as 
the landlord was about to speak. “ I shall return in the 
morning early.” 

The girl put her hand into his with dumb eloquence, 
looked into his eyes, then turned suddenly away to the 
staircase. 

The doctor watched her with his hand unlowered from 
where she had touched it. When the girl had disappeared 
he began to pull up the collar of his coat again. Then he 
turned slowly to the landlord, saying, Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, sir ; good-night,” said the landlord. The 
doctor went out, and the landlord closed the door and 
locked it; then walked slowly to the middle of the hall, 
and looked thoughtfully, first at the closed door, after- 
wards at the staircase. He passed his fingers through his 
hair, and a puzzled expression came over his face as he 
shook his head, saying: 

“ I’m beat— fairly beat. I can’t make it out at all.” 

Doctor Carsewell walked slowly towards his villa, on the 
Church Eoad. His thoughts were not altogether devoted 
to his wife. The fact was that he was thinking rather in- 
tently upon the somewhat younger lady whom he had 
just left at the inn, 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


15 


“ Poor child, poor child ! ” he muttered with a sigh that 
was not wholly the result of pity. He thought of how 
the poor child had pressed his hand in all simplicity of 
mind; and then he thought of how he himself had, in all 
simplicity, kissed the child upon the cheek. 

“ Poor child I” he said again, as he looked out over the 
cultivated tracks to where the moorland stretched down to 
the sea. “ I knew I might trust my power of perception 
to find out all. Poor child ! by this time to-morrow she 
will he an orphan.” 

Curiously enough, the result of all his thoughts was a 
feeling that if the child had not entered the inn at the 
instant she had done so, he would have kissed her on the 
other cheek out of pure pity. 

In her room in the hotel Miss Liscomb sat alone for a 
considerable time after she had entered it. She sat with her 
long hair loose about her neck and shoulders and bosom. 
It was long shining golden-red hair. She was thoughtful 
for a while, but then with a sudden motion she swept all 
her hair behind her. 

“ It is done— it is all done,” she said. “ My plan has* 
succeeded so far; and what a plan, too! If I had not seen 
him in Utterhaven when I went to look after the vessel, I 
should never have dreamed of such a plan. And yet I am 
just commencing. How is it possible that I can carry out 
everything without an obstruction ? The least flaw, and 
all is discovered ! Ah, I must not have a doubt. If I 
once begin to doubt, where shall I end ? ” 

She rose hastily, and w^ent over to where two portman- 
teaus were lying. She fastened the door of the room, and 
then unlocked one of them. It contained several loose 
articles of gentleman’s attire. From a small pocket-book 
which was at the bottom of all she took a parcel, and laid 
it on the table. She opened it and there lay before her a 
number of folded bank-notes. These she spread out in 
order, and quietly counted them. There were exactly 
two hundred pounds in all. She tied them up again, and 
put them under the pillow of the bed. She sat down 
when this was done, and she was again lost in thought. 


16 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


Suddenly as before, however, she rose, put out her light, 
and drew aside the curtain from the window, looking out 
over the moorland to the dark sea in the distance. In a 
few moments the curtain fell from her hand, and she was 
lying on the bed weeping wild tears. The sense of her 
loneliness had come upon her, overwhelming all her 
thoughts ; and her sHength of mind was unable to bear up 
against that flood of consciousness. 


CHAPTER III. 

TELLS HOW A YOUNG WOMAN OF IMAGINATION MAY HAVE 
HER OWN WAY. 

The doctor had promised to call at the inn early in the 
morning ; but long before he arrived Philippa Liscomb had 
risen and dressed herself in the black garment she had 
worn on the previous night. It was a x>lain black dress, 
unrelieved by any ornamental trimming; but it was per- 
fectly made to her figure, allowing all the tender, graceful 
lines of her body to be apparent. Her figure was exqui- 
site. Every movement that she gave seemed to display its 
grace. She could stand upright with her head lifted slight- 
ly and her arms hanging by her sides; and yet one could 
not help feeling that the position was one of perfect grace, 
and that all its grace was due to nature, not art. This was 
a favourite posture of hers. It seemed in the eyes of most 
girls to show a reckless disregard for the ordinary elements 
of the statuesque— a scornful casting aside of all auxiliaries 
which painters and sculptors have in every age regarded 
as legitimate to be employed in producing a graceful effect. 
And there would, doubtless, have seemed to be some arro- 
gance in the posture if the impression created by her beauty 
had not obliterated from the mind of every one who saw 
her, the power of judging her by any preconceived ideas 
of beauty in form. 

In this position the girl stood when she had put on her 


lY 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 

black dress in her bedroom in the little hotel. Then she 
went into her sitting-room, and looked thoughtfully into 
the glass that was only large enough to reflect her face and 
shoulders. ^The face that it reflected was now pale. Its 
expression was one of meekness, for the lashes of her blue 
eyes— or were they violet ?— were very long, and when they 
drooped upon her cheek, she seemed meeker than any pic- 
tured Madonna in existence. Then above her forehead 
was a crown of wonderful hair, braided in the simplest 
fashion. 

As she looked at her reflection she thought of how the 
good doctor had called her child, kissing her on the cheek ; 
and she gave a little scornful laugh that took from her face 
every expression of the meekness that had been upon it. 
She probably noticed the effect of her laugh, for she turned 
hastily from the glass, at the same instant that the door of 
the room was knocked at gently. She gave a glance hastily 
around, and then opened the door. The doctor, faithful to 
his promise, was standing outside. 

When he entered the room she did not shake hands with 
him ; but in an eager tone she cried, grasping his arm so 
quickly as to seem as if she was clutching it : 

“ Do not tell me that he is — gone ! No, no, it cannot 
be!” 

“ Calm yourself, my dear young lady,” said the doctor, 
taking her hand in both of his own. “ He is still sinking, 
but he has had some sleep through the night. You have 
had some also, I hope ? ” 

“ Yes, yes. I have slept. At intervals I fell into a fe- 
verish sleep. I slept. Nevermind: you have come: I shall 
see him.” 

“ Not for half-an-hour, at least,” he replied, in a way 
that sounded singularly cold in contrast with her impas- 
sioned words. “ You must have something to eat in the first 
place, and while it is being prepared — ah, you have a story. 
You said something last night about his having treated 
you cruelly.” 

“ Did I ? ” she cried. “ No, no, I cannot have said that ! 
Heaven forgive me if I spoke a word against him. I am 


18 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


willing to admit to him that I was in the wrong. Do not 
think that I will go to him with any recollection of the 
past, doctor. I shall throw myself at his feet and beg his 
forgiveness.” 

“ You are a noble woman,” said the doctor, after a pause, 
during which he was wondering if her eyes could consci- 
entiously be described as blue : would it not be nearer the 
truth to say that they were violet ? It was a nice question. 
Her eyes offered themselves to him for its solution. 

The least little sigh escaped from her. 

“ I will tell you all, my dear friend,” she said gently. 

“No, no,” said he; “not all; there is no need to tell 
me all. The recital would unfit you for the duty that is 
still before you.” 

Whether her eyes were blue or violet there was cer- 
tainly a gleam of satisfaction in them at that moment. 

“ I am sure that you are right,” she said. “ It is a pain 
to talk even to the most sympathetic of friends — even to 
you, Doctor Carsewell — of the miserable beginning and 
growth of a family quarrel. I am willing to say that I 
was to blame; I should have given in all points to my 
father. Oh, I cannot talk of it.” 

“ Much better not, my dear,” said the doctor ; “ the recol- 
lection of it is already unnerving you.” 

“ I will not think over our quarrel,” she cried. “ It is 
an agony to reflect that a few kindly words spoken a year 
ago might have prevented our separation. Yes, we were 
parted ; but when I heard that he was ill, and at the point 
of setting out for a long voyage at Utterhaven, I hastened 
to his side. I was too late to see him at Utterhaven, so I 
followed him here, but you know that I feared to reveal 
myself while he was weak: I waited for him to gain 
strength, hoping that I might be allowed to accompany 
him on his long voyage.” 

“ The voyage upon which he is now setting out must 
be undertaken alone,” said the doctor solemnly. “ I have 
told you the truth about your father. He is slowly sink- 
ing. I do not think he will be alive to-morrow. He may 
rally a little if his mind is relieved by your going to him, 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 19 

but it will be only for a time. His constitution is utterly 
broken down.” 

“ If you were to tell him that I am here I know he 
would never he prevailed upon to see me ; and yet I must 
see him again— I must acknowledge to him that I was 
wrong, though even now I can scarcely blame myself.” 

“ My dear young lady, this is not a time to debate upon 
nice points. You must see your father before he dies.” 

There was silence in the room. The girl was lost in 
thought for some moments. 

“ I think I know of a plan, doctor,” she said. “ Sup- 
posing you were to allow me to enter his room as a new 
nurse ? Oh, I shall go to him as a nurse, and you may be 
certain that no nurse could be so much to him as I shall 
be.” 

“I know it, my child; I know it. I agree with your 
plan ; it has been suggested by the pure affection of your 
heart.” 

“ God bless you, my dear friend! ” said the girl, laying 
her hand upon his shoulder. “ You are my best friend — 
soon, perhaps, you will be my only one.” 

This was how she was sitting when the servant entered 
with the tea and toast for her breakfast. The doctor was 
looking into her face as he sat on his seat, and she was be- 
side him. As the servant entered the room the doctor 
was just thinking if he should not make some response to 
the show of confidence on the part of the young lady; if, 
for instance, it might not be well for him to touch, say, 
her hand with his lips for a second. This thought cross- 
ing his mind at the instant was enough to account for the 
little start he received at the opening of the door. Miss 
Liscomb, however, was not in the least startled. She did 
not remove her hand from the shoulder of her friend — 
nay, she repeated her last sentence after the servant had 
entered. 

“ You are my best friend, indeed. Doctor Carsewell.” 

Her best friend made a little movement of the shoulder 
upon which her hand was resting, and looked towards the 
servant as she put the table china in its place. Miss Lis- 


20 


ONE FAIR DAtTGIlTER. 


comb was aware of the slight movement he made, and also 
of his glance towards the servant. She removed her hand, 
then walked across the room, and stared blankly out of 
the window. 

There was a lengthened pause while the waitress of the 
hotel moved the plates about. 

“ Now, miss, all is ready,” she said at length ; and Miss 
Liscomb, who had not been startled by the sudden entrance 
of the girl a few minutes before, now gave a start from 
the window, which showed how abstracted she had become 
in the interval. She looked with a sad smile towards the 
table. 

” Now, you must really try to eat something,” said the 
doctor, rising. “ I will return to you in less than half an 
hour, and I trust that in the meantime you will have made 
a hearty breakfast.” 

“ For the sake of others I must make an effort,” said the 
girl, smiling in the same way as he went out of the 
room. 

By the force of her resolution, conceived on behalf of 
others. Miss Liscomb did certainly contrive to make a very 
fair meal. When the doctor returned, however, her cup 
and plate had been removed, and she was once more alone 
in front of the window. 

“ I have arranged all for you,” said the doctor. “ You 
are to go to him at once. You are to be his nurse, recollect ; 
and here is his medicine. I need hardly tell you to be 
careful in administering it.” 

“Medicine!” said the girl hastily. “Then there is a 
chance.” 

The physician smiled gently, and shook his head, 
saying : 

“ Do not allow yourself to be buoyed up with a single 
hope, Miss Liscomb. All that medical skill can do for 
him now is to afford him a little relief from pain before 
the great physician. Death, comes to relieve him from all 
pain. The end is not far off now.” 

“ Ah, the word ‘ medicine ’ seemed to me so full of con- 
solation when you uttered it, that for the moment a hope 


THE MAIDEK PLANS. 


21 


arose — enough, I shall do what you bid me. You will re- 
turn in the afternoon, my friend ? ” 

“Without fail, Miss Liscomb; without fail. It is un- 
necessary for me to offer you any directions regarding the 
treatment of your father: your own sense of duty will be 
your best guide. ” 

She looked into his face with her meek eyes full of ex- 
pression. He opened the door as she passed out; then he 
went before her through a long narrow corridor in the 
old-fashioned inn, and paused at last before a door. 

“ That is his room,’’ he whispered. “Now, are you 
calm. Miss Liscomb ? ” 

.♦The girl put her hand in his, and once more looked 
into his face. Her hand was not trembling. 

The doctor pressed it, and then opened the door softly. 

“ God bless you, my dear,” he whispered, as she passed 
like a shadow into the silent shadowy room. 


CHAPTER IV. 

DESCRIBES A SPRING LANDSCAPE AS SEEN THROUGH THE 
EYES OF A YOUNG WOMAN. 

Miss Liscomb paused when the door was closed behind 
her and did not go into the room immediately. She 
looked around, observing everything narrowly. 

It was a moderately large room, but dimly lighted, for 
the yellow blinds were drawn dovm, and the spring sun- 
shine was too weak to make more than a sickly gleam in 
the room, except for a little space at each side of the blinds, 
where a thin scimitar of light glanced through to the floor. 
A bed with the curtains drawn closely, stood to one side, 
and near it was a small table covered with phials of vari- 
ous sizes. A large cushioned chair was against the wall, 
and the girl knew that it had been occupied by the nurse 
who had watched by the bed through the night. 

When her survey was made. Miss Liscomb went gently 


2^ 


ONE FAIR DAtiGIITER. 


forward to tlie table and laid upon it the bottle containing 
what the doctor had called medicine. Then she took a 
step to the side of the bed, and began to draw the curtain 
for a little space. She had to move aside to let what light 
’there was in the room fall upon the face of the man who 
was lying within the shadov/ of the curtains. A sickly 
gleam fell over the counterpane and pillows, and then the 
girl saw the pallid, thin face of the man for whose death 
she was waiting. 

His eyes were closed, and it would have seemed to any 
one looking at him that they would never again open. 
There was a ghastly ring round each hollow of his eyes, 
and the projecting bone of each cheek was dark. 

“ O God ! what a change three days has made upon this 
man ! ” she said, in a whisper. 

She began to quail before the sight so terrible to one 
full of life. She had never before seen a dying man, 
and the shock of what was now beneath her eyes was ter- 
rible to her; but soon its effect was over; she hent for- 
ward as if striving to find out if he was still breathing, 
but the movement of the sheet upon his chest was so 
slight that she was uncertain at first whether there was 
any pulse of life beneath. Having satisfied herself that 
the man was asleep, she drew the curtain once more and 
seated herself in that large chair, and glanced around the 
room for the second time. At the head of the bed lay a 
black portmanteau which she had not noticed before. 

After regarding it attentively for a short time, she gave 
another glance towards the bed, and then took a step to 
v/here the portmanteau lay. She had just bent over it, 
discovering that it was locked and strapped, when tliere 
was a slight movement among the pillows of the bed. She 
stepped back to the chair. In another moment there ap- 
peared from inside the bed a thin hand that clutched the 
curtain and drew it back — slowly— painfully. Tlien the 
girl saw the large, hollow, eager eyes of the pale face that 
was on the pillow staring at her. 

The sight gave her a shock, for it was as if the sealed 
eyes of a dead man had suddenly become unclosed. But 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


23 


in a second sLe recovered herself, and laid her hand upon 
one of the phials, as though she had been waiting* for him 
to awaken to offer him its contents. She thought that at 
the action he would have spoken; but when slie looked up 
she found those large hollow eyes still fixed upon her face. 
Their gaze was so terrible to her that she was at the point 
of rushing from the room. When the voice of the man 
was heard, however, the horrible fascination of his eyes 
seemed to be broken. 

“ Are you the new nurse ? ” he said in a feeble voice. 
“You did not tell me you were a nurse.” 

“ I hope you will not object to my nursing you, sir,” 
she replied softly. 

“ Then you are not a nurse ? ” he said. 

“ I am not,” she answered meekly ; “ but I have had to 
be a nurse often— often ! ” She glanced down to her black 
dress almost instinctively. 

“ Why do you wish to nurse me for these last hours of 
my life ? ” he asked. “You do not expect me to recover ? 
Then, besides, you don’t know me. You spoke to me at 
Utterhaven, but I did not know that you would follow me 
here. What am I to you that you should think of me ? ” 

“ I am selfish,” she answered. “ I have had grief — 
grief. I knew of your illness at Utterhaven ; I followed 
you here, and the doctor gave me permission to come to 
your room. You will not refuse me the one comfort left 
to me. You will not forbid my watching with you ? ” 

She spoke in a low voice of entreaty, without any the- 
atrical action. 

“ How can I forbid you ? ” he said. Then a little smile 
that was very horrible to see passed over his features as 
he added, “ I am afraid you will be deprived of your con- 
solation before long.” 

As if exhausted with even so brief a conversation, he 
closed his eyes again, but still that smile, which was not a 
smile, remained upon his face. The mind of the girl, who 
was looking at him with more of fear upon her than she 
had ever felt before, was crossed by a strange thought: 
she wondered if he would die with that expression on hig 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


2i 

features. In another instant she recollected that the doc- 
tor had directed her to administer certain medicines to 
the man when he should awake, and she hastened to make 
the draught for him. 

At the sound of the glasses he opened his eyes and 
turned his head towards her, watching her until she had 
brought the glass to him. She held it to his lips, and 
raised his head gently as he drank the contents. Once 
more then his eyes closed, and she resumed her seat with- 
out a word. 

Into the dim room through the silence that succeeded 
there came from wuthout the brief passionate song of a 
lark. The girl heard it, but was unconscious of its sound, 
she had become so lost in her own thoughts. Here she 
was, waiting for the death of this man, who was nothing 
to her, whom she had seen but by chance for a few days 
previously; and yet how much of her future depended 
upon his dying ! Who was he ? she wondered. What 
was he ? 

The room was filled with the unequal notes of the 
bird that sang so far away; but instead of hearing its 
song she heard in fancy the plunging of the waters along 
the broken coast, as she had heard it on the previous 
night. 

She was startled from her reverie by the voice of the 
man. She turned to him. His eyes had unclosed again, 
and were staring blankly at the window, the blind of 
which was now penetrated with the shining of the April 
noon. The light of death within his eyes imparted to 
them a fierceness akin to that of hunger, as they stared at 
the window. There was upon his face such an all-pervad- 
ing look of death that it would have been impossible for 
any expression of emotion to be seen upon it. The song 
of the bird that had been flooding the chamber ceased ; 
but as the man gazed towards the window, it suddenly 
burst out again. Then his hand, which was still holding 
the curtain of the bed where he had drawn it aside, re- 
leased its clutch and fell back upon the sheet, its long thin 
fingers still bent from the force of his hold, 


TPIB MAIDEN PLANS. 


25 


His first words were indistinct ; they seemed but half- 
conscious murmuriugs. In a short time, however, he 
turned his eyes upon the girl, saying, in his weak but 
hard voice : 

“ Go to the window and tell me all that you see out- 
side.” 

She went to the window and drew up the blind, and 
the room was flooded with clear sunlight. The notes of 
the lark became more passionately loud, and, far away, an 
arch of the faint blue spring sky was seen with a few 
faint whits feathers of vapour floating across it. 

The girl stood at the window for a few moments, look- 
ing out after she had drawn up the blind. 

“Tell me all that you can see outside,” the man cried 
again from the bed. “ All — all. I want to feel that I am 
at home— dying at home.” 

She looked out intently, but hardly knowing how she 
was to begin the description he demanded of her. 

“ From that blue sky to where you stand — tell me 
all.” 

“ There is the sea beneath that blue sky,” she said, 
looking forth. “ It is green out to the horizon, and I can 
see how white the sails of two ships are glittering in the 
sunlight.” 

“ Ships ! I don’t want to hear about the ships or the 
sea. I hate them!” he said. “The land — the green 
land!” 

“ Far away along the coast I can see the light grey 
smoke of Utterhaven,” continued the girl. “ Then there 
is the broad waste moorland, with a fev/ brown tracks 
worn across it in different directions, and at the margin 
nearer us there are cultivated fields: some of them are 
sparkling with the spring grass, others are darkly purple 
where they have been lately ploughed. Across one of 
them the shadow of a cloud is passing, and I can see its 
progress along the ridges. The hedges between the fields 
are very green, but in the midst of each there is a white 
hawthorn. To one side, a little way off, there is the 
church spire ; but all the church is hidden by the trees 


26 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


that grow so very close together up to where the little 
river passes down to the mills. There is a waggoner on 
the white road far away, and on the river there is a black 
barge drawn by a horse.” 

She paused, and glanced towards the man at whose re- 
quest she had described the scene. She could hardly keep 
from shrieking with the terror of the sight she saw ; for 
he was sitting upright, with his head stretched forward as 
he gazed intently at the window. This girl, naturally 
strong of mind, and, by long training, self-possessed, 
seemed to have changed since she had entered the room. 
She could now only stand beside the window looking in 
terror at the man. , She saw his hands grasp the side of 
the bed in an attempt to sui^port himself in the position to 
which a spasmodic effort had I’aised him, but he was un- 
able to steady himself ; he fell back upon the pillow with 
a groan, and closed his eyes. In the silence that followed 
the song of the lark was heard loud and clear. 

“ It is the same as it was long ago — how long ago ? 
Ten years — twelve years — twenty years ? ” the man mur- 
mured. “ And I have lost it all in trying to find some- 
thing I fancied better — thirty years ago — a lifetime — a lost 
lifetime ! ” 

The girl quietly drew down the blind ; and at her mo- 
tion and the gradual dimming of the light, he opened his 
eyes and looked towards her, then slowly put out his hand. 
She went to him and took it in her own; the contact sent 
a cold thrill through her. 

“ God bless you 1 ” he said. “ You have brought before 
my eyes a scene full of old memories. I see it all even 
now — the waggoner, the black barge, the horse— all as 
they used to be to me — to me who shall never see any- 
thing of my own land again. You have done more for 
me, child, than you may ever do for any one on earth — 
more than I ever did for any one. Think of that — think 
of me.” 

His fingers loosed their hold upon hers, and once more 
his eyes closed. She stood there beside him silenth^, until, 
after an interval of several minutes, he spoke again. 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


27 

“ Put 3^our hand under my pillow, and take out my 
chain,” he said. 

Without disturbing him she obeyed, and drew forth a 
gold chain with a watch at the swivel. He took it from 
her, and his fingers ran along the chain until they had 
found a small bunch of seals at the drop, 

“You do not wear ornaments,” he said; “but you will 
take one of these from me — the last gift I shall give to 
any one. I have not made many gifts.” 

He had detached a small curiously-shaped seal ; and, 
after looking at it for a few moments, he handed it to her. 

“I do not wear ornaments,” she said gently; “but I 
shall wear this, as a remembrance of having afforded a 
little comfort to one of God’s creatures.” 

She bowed over his hand in all meekness, and pressed it. 

“ Take it and be warned,” he said. “ Be warned against 
thinking too hardly of men and women. That was the 
cui’se of my life. Here I am dying; I have a child, but I 
would not have him beside me — I have cut myself off 
from him for years — this is how my life is ending. I lived 
for my money; and my reward is, that all I lived and 
toiled for will go to strangers — strangers who will' laugh 
at me for liaving been such a fool as to work for them ! ” 
He clenched his thin hands as he spoke. He had turned 
away from the girl, and was murmuring in a half audi- 
ble tone to himself. After a short pause he continued to 
mutter, in a quick bitter way, as he seemed to be reflecting 
upon his former words : 

“ Let them ! But I am not dead yet ; I have life yet — 
life yet! Is not this life?” He opened and closed his 
fingers several times, as his hand lay upon the counter- 
pane. “ Life enough to tear up what I have written, and 
to leave all that I have worked for to my boy! Would 
they laugh then ? ” He made an attempt to smile that dis- 
torted his face, and seemed to cause him pain ; for his 
hands clenched themselves by a sudden contraction. He 
turned his head on the pillow, saying, “ Oh, my God, for 
a week’s life to let me find out if what they told me of my 
boy is true. I would have found out all, I thought, when 
3 


28 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


I came home ; but this is what I have found out instead — 
this death that I feel coming over me. O God, if I but 
knew ! ” 

Miss Liscorab stood beside the bed, not knowing what 
to do. She had never before felt so weak. She would 
have soothed the wretched man if she had known what to 
do for him. She was almost bewildered by what she had 
heard him say, nothing of it being intelligible to her. 

After a while she bent over him, and saw that he was 
sleeping again. She drew the curtains silently, and seated 
herself in the cushioned chair, to wait for v\diatever should 
come with the evening and the night. 


CHAPTER V. 

ACCOUNTS FOR THE AGITATION OF A YOUNG WOMAN WHO 
WAS USUALLY SELF-POSSESSED. 

The space of v/aiting seemed much more weary to the 
girl by reason of the activity that had been in her life for 
the previous few days, and the anxiety that was on her 
mind for her future. This afternoon’s silent watch should 
have been refreshing to her. But it was not; it was only 
full of weariness. 

She examined the small seal which the man had given 
to her. It was of a peculiar pattern, and seemed to be 
very old. The stone was a chrysoprase, and it was en- 
graved with two letters, “ A. B.” She noticed that the set- 
ting had a hinge, and on raising it she found beneath a 
small glass box, evidently meant for hair, after the fash- 
ion of a period, but now empty. On the gold plate at the 
bottom there was, however, scratched in awkward uneven 
characters, “ Our Alfred's hair, mt. VIA 

The girl turned the trinket over in her hands, but could 
discover no other mark upon it, and she could certainly 
not gain much information from the words scratched in- 
side. She put the seal into her pocket, and arose from her 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


29 


seat, standing with her head leaning ux^on her hand at the 
fireplace. Her mind was filled with anxious thought, — 
not for the man who was lying in the room, nor for the 
care that was upon his heart at these last hours of his life; 
but for her own future. She was swayed with hopes and 
fears. She could not remain inactive for a minute : she 
got into such a state of nervousness that she was forced to 
w^alk about the room to try and calm herself. 

So the long afternoon w^ore itself aw’^ay. Some refresh- 
ment had been brought to Philippa in that silent room, 
and she had partaken of it so soon as the servant had dis- 
ai)peared. The light that had lately been sparkling like 
shining steel at the open spaces on each side of the blind 
had now changed to ruby — the scimitars that had been 
made by the sunbeams seemed to be dyed with blood, as 
the sun dipped to the west. 

The girl sat while the man slei^t. She w^atched the 
changing of the light and the levelling of the rays before 
their final withdraw'al. The land outside was becoming 
shadowy, she knew; and rising, she went to the window 
and drew aside the blind sufficiently far to allow of her 
looking out. 

The landscape which she had described when the noon- 
day sun had been upon it, was now dim in the early twi- 
light. Around the distant sea-horizon a strip of shell pink 
was drawn between the dark blue of the higher sky and 
the blue-grey of the waters. The evening star was glow- 
ing large and lustrous — a Fortunate Island in the blue 
ocean of the west — and higher still the ghostly moon 
stood. All the landscape was fast becoming shadowed 
with the falling night. 

A little sound as of a sigh behind her in the room made 
her let the blind fall again into its place. She moved to 
her chair, but before she had seated herself she knew that 
the man by whom she was watching was awake. 

He was awake and speaking in an undertone, as if to 
himself ; and when Miss Liscomb caught the words, she 
knew that the language he used was Spanish, wffiich was 
unintelligible to her. He did not seem to be delirious, but 


30 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


speaking as if only partially awake. Gradually his voice 
became louder and more vehement, though in his state of 
weakness it could never become very loud. His thin hands 
clenched themselves over the counterpane ; he seemed striv- 
ing to raise his head, when all at once his voice fell awa}" 
and ceased. 

She started up, but did not dare to draw the curtain 
from about him : she was afraid to see him die. 

A short, but to her terrible, interval passed. Then she 
saw in the dim light the fingers of a hand upon the cur- 
tain drawing it aside, as they had done before. She has- 
tened to complete what the man was endeavouring to do, 
and once more she saw his face on the pillow, with his 
large deep eyes looking at her: far more ghastly the face 
appeared in the twilight dimness of the room ; but his eyes 
seemed to be glowing with a luminous light of their own. 
She was now self-possessed. 

“You have had a long sleep,” she said. “I trust that 
you feel refreshed by it.” 

He continued to look at her, but without speaking a 
word for a long time. He then turned his eyes from her? 
saying: 

“ I will trust her; there is no one else to trust.” Once 
more he looked at her in a steady, searching way, but she 
did not wince for even an instant. She stood before him 
calmly, and without a sign of fear. 

“ I think you are true, child,” said the man, more ten- 
derly than he had yet spoken. “ You are true now, and 
you may be so for some years still, — yes, until the recollec- 
tion of the grief that you say you have suffered has passed 
away. If it is a great grief it may be as long as a year be- 
fore you forget it; if it has rendered you poor, it will be 
longer still.” 

The light in the room was not so dim but that she 
could see the attempt to smile that he made. She saw it, 
and shuddered. 

Then he turned his eyes from her face, and looked 
towards the window. “ It is not night yet,” he continued, 
in a different tone, “ so raise the blind that we may have 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


31 


whatever light there is remaining. Why do they darken 
a dying man’s room ? Is it to give him a foretaste of the 
grave ? ” 

Miss Liscomb raised the blind, and the soft light of the 
quiet evening entered the chamber. The shell-pink of the 
west had drifted far round the horizon ; the far-off waters 
had become dark, and the crescent of the moon and the 
glowing star had sunk some distance in the rich blue, 
their silver reflections mingling in the ripples of the sea. 
They were on a level with the window, and the light they 
made through the air was apparent in the room. 

“ What is it that makes this new light ? ’’ he asked. 

“ It is the moon that is in the west,” she replied. “ You 
can see it, I am sure — the moon and a star.” 

He moved his head a little upon the pillow, and as he 
did so the girl started to hear him give a laugh. 

“The Evening Star!” he said, in a husky tone that 
sounded shockingly bitter in that weak voice. “ The Star 
of Love and of lovers’ dreams — that is the star ! Come 
here, child, and I will tell you a story of love.” 

She went to the bedside. 

“ I am going to tell you whatever story I have,” he 
said, “ not because I want your sympathy, but because I 
need you to do something for me — something I cannot 
trust that foolish doctor to do ; and I have no friends here 
— nay, in the world. You will be my friend for the few 
hours that are left to me. You saw me when I was helped 
into the hotel at Utterhaven, and I think you pitied me. 
No one knew anything of me but that I had been put 
ashore from a ship coming from abroad to a different 
port. You spoke to me then when there was no one else 
to speak to me ; and when I fancied myself able to drive 
here, you followed me out of kindness, for you had never 
seen me before, and you did not hope for any recom- 
pense.” 

“ I will have none from you,” she cried, in fear lest he 
meant to offer her something now. She ^vould not have 
taken anything from him. “ I have received much recom- 
pense already,” she added gently. 


32 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ I told them at the hotel that my name was Andrews,” 
he continued; “but my name is Bentham, Andrew Ben- 
tham. I was coming home from South America when 
they put me ashore for medical assistance off Utterhaven. 
I left England more than thirty years ago for South 
America, where I went into business and prospered. A 
few years after I landed I married. I was a fool ! I fan- 
cied myself in love; hut it was only pity I had for the 
child of a countryman who was ruined in the city I lived 
in, and had absconded, leaving her to starve — the ruf- 
fian ! ” 

Miss Liscomb gave a little start, but it was only mo- 
mentary ; it passed, and left no trace behind. 

“ She married me because there was no one to pity her, 
and she was willing to starve; but, before we had been 
half a year together, I found out that she had been en- 
gaged to another man— a naval officer — previously, and I 
began to find that she still loved him. Our boy was born 
there — Alfred — his hair was enclosed in that seal you 
have. I fancied that my wife would now forget her girl- 
ish love, and I believed for some years that she had done 
so. I was a fool: she had never ceased to correspond 
with my rival — my rival, did I say ? Ah, my God, there 
was no rivalry in the matter: she had never thought of 
loving me even for an hour. Perhaps I treated her cruel- 
ly after that. Yes ; I know now, at this hour, when all 
things seem to be clear tp me, that I treated her badly. 
Enough ; she left me after a few years, and went to her 
lover. He was now in command of the South American 
station. I did not make any attempt to be revenged. 
She had forsaken her son and her husband, fancying she 
could find any happiness away from them. I was not 
going to spoil her experiment. More than once within 
the next few years she sent to me, imploring to be allowed 
to see her son ; but I burnt the letters without replying to 
any of them. It was not until ten years had passed that 
retribution came. Her lover died by an accident; and 
though he was wealthy she was left without sufficient 
money to enable her to live. Meantime my son had been 


THjG MAlDE^I PLANS. 


33 


at school in England, and in a few years more he welit to 
the University. I had not seen him for nine years, but 
he never let anything interfere with his writing to me. 
He had already distinguished himself at his college, when 
I got some news regarding him, though not from himself. 
One of my oldest friends had visited England, and re- 
turned to tell me that my son had forgotten the shame of 
his mother: he lived with her in his vacations, and had 
never ceased to be to her as a son. I had never known 
what it was to be jealous before this news^ came tome; 
but now I was maddened to think that that woman should 
be allowed to have his society — to look upon his face — to 
be a mother to him, while I, who had done all for him, 
was cut off from seeing him for years. I wrote to him in 
my passion, asking him if what I had heard was true; and 
he replied, admitting it all. He had gone to her, he said, 
and had entreated her to make his house her own ; and he 
told me — he actually told me, his father, that he hoped 
he should never forget that that woman was his mother.” 

The man’s hands clenched over the sheet, and his hollow 
eyes glowed. The twilight of the room had now passed 
into moonlight. Philippa v/aited for him to calm himself, 
and it seemed that he did become calm after a time. He 
looked away from her face, and gazed out of the window 
to the setting star. Then he turned his face to the wall, 
and said in a slow steadfast voice: 

“ I shall never forgive him — never ! ” 

Then he began to murmur in Spanish, as he had done 
before. Gradually he ceased, and there was silence in the 
room. Philippa rose and went again to the window, look- 
ing forth across that moorland to where the dark w^aters 
lay about the sky. She waited until she saw the moon 
sink updn the horizon. A strange thought came to her 
when it had disappeared. She went quickly over to the 
bed and put her hand down to the face very slowly. . . . 
No; he w-^as still breathing. 

With a little sigh, either of relief or impatience, she 
seated herself, and the room was soon in complete dark- 
ness. 


34 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ How long will it be ? ” she said. “ Good God, how 
long will it be ? . . . What was it that he wanted me to 
do for him ? Shall I never know it ? ” 

Then, in spite of the unfinished story she had just 
heard, and the peril of her present position, she fell asleep. 
Like a voice in a dream she seemed to hear some one 
speaking. She started uj), but it was some moments be- 
fore she could collect her thoughts sufliciently to know 
that the man had also awakened. 

“ Light, light! ” he said. “ I must have light quickly. 
Is there no one that will help me ? O God, must I die in 
the darkness ? ” 

In an instant Miss Liscomb had put a light to the 
small lamp that stood upon the table. 

“ Come here, child,” he said feebly. “ Quick, quick, 
before it is too late. I have forgiven him. I was coming 
to see him — my boy. Ah, the will, I must have the will 
— both wills, or all will be lost. Quick, child ! This is the 
key, open the portmanteau; give me the box.” He held 
her out a key on a small bunch. She took it and hastily 
unlocked the i)ortmanteau, and searched for the box 
which he seemed to desire her to understand was there. 
She did not take long to find it. 

“ Bring me the light,” he said eagerly, when he felt the 
box in his hand. He tried to put the key into the lock, 
but failed. The girl, however, unlocked the box, and in 
an instant he had clutched the two papers that it con- 
tained. One of them he let fall on his breast; he caught 
the other in both his hands, and with a violent effort tore 
it across. He made an attempt to tear it a second time, 
but he was too weak. It was horrible to the girl to see 
him take it in his teeth, and try to tear it asunder wuth 
both his hands. 

“ Tear it 1 ” he cried, letting it drop. “ Tear it quickly 
— fire, burn it I ” 

In the sudden thought that had come to him he had 
caught up the paper and held it over the flame of the 
lamp. With one end of it blazing he thrust it into the 
girl’s hand, saying: 


« 



The past, the past Ashes — ashes! P.35. 




THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


35 


“Let me see it fall to ashes — ashes.” 

She grasped the burning paper, and ran to the fire- 
place and threw it on the hearth. The man laughed 
hideously to see it blaze up. Before it had burned itself 
out, he called to her again. He was holding the remain- 
ing paper out to her. He clutched her arm eagerly. 

“Take it,” he said. “You must find him. Give it to 
him. He will know then that I have forgiven him. And 
she — I have forgiven her. Tell him that the past ” 

The hand that was clutching her arm fell back over 
the edge of the bed, but the fingers pointed to the hearth 
where the last flames of the burning paper had wasted 
themselves away. His eyes followed tbe direction of his 
hand. She saw him strive to speak, but she only heard 
the words faintly murmured, as he pointed to the hearth: 

“ The past — the past ! Ashes — ashes ! ” 

Then the hand fell over the side of the bed. There was 
a deep silence in the room. 

The girl turned away from the bed, and, seating herself 
in the chair, covered her face with her hands. She had 
never before seen any one die; and this was to her a ter- 
rible thing — to see the death of this man who w^as a 
stranger to her, and yet one upon whose death she had 
been counting so much. 

She had seen him only a few days before, when she 
had been at Utterhaven, and had learned that he could not 
live. She had come to Steeplecross to wait for his death. 
All her designs had been attended with a degree of success 
beyond anything she could have hoped for; and yet as 
she sat there with her hands over her face, trying to shut 
out the recollections of the past hour, she w^ould have 
given much never to have seen the man who now lay 
there dead. 


30 


ONE FAIR daughter. 


CHAPTER VI. 

RELATES HOW THE IMAGINATION OF A YOUNG WOMAN MAY 
LEAD TO THANKFULNESS, AND ALSO TO TERROR. 

The feeling of terror vvhicli Philippa experienced after 
the death of the man was quickly followed by a conscious- 
ness of the necessity for her to pursue a certain course of 
action, and, particularly, to be consistent in the part she 
had elected to play. 

She drew the curtain across the form of the dead man 
on the bed, in a slow and solemn way, as a girl would do 
the action for a father whom she loved. 

“Thank God,” she said gravely, “I was able to soothe 
his last moments. If I had not been beside him a great 
injustice might have been done, for he would never have 
trusted the doctor. It was indeed fortunate that I was 
here.” 

She really began to feel it was a special blessing that 
had been conferred upon the man to have had her beside 
him in his last moments ; and so she took up the paper 
which had been in the box with the one she had seen 
burnt, and examined it. She saw that it w^as a will by 
which all the property, at home and abroad, of Andrew 
Bentham, of Rio Janeiro, was bequeathed to his son, 
Alfred Bentham. The document was duly attested, and 
was dated six months prior to this night when .she read it. 
It contained also a specification of Andrew Bentham’s 
estate, which showed the girl that he had been wealthy. 

“Alfred Bentham, Alfred Bentham!” .she repeated. 
“I shall not' forget the name. This is for him. It will 
not be hard for me to make him my friend in this matter 
when I bring him such a document as this.” 

She put it into the pocket of her dress ; then with a 
sudden thought, she took the watch, chain, and seals, and 
put them into the box, which she locked and returned 
to the portmanteau, which she also locked, after having 
noticed that the remainder of the contents were of little 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


37 


value. There was, however, some money in a pocket 
book — twenty English sovereigns. These she did not 
touch. She was not a thief. She began to think what 
there was left for her to do before summoning the doctor. 
In that pause she heard the slow step of the doctor him- 
self on the corridor. In a moment she had thrown her- 
self on her knees by the bed, and buried her face with her 
hands clasped behind her head. 

She did not rise at the opening of the door, and the doc- 
tor, entering gently, knew that the man was dead. He 
also could not help becoming aware of the exceeding 
charm of the girl’s position. She formed the most perfect 
figure of Grief. 

He paused reverently at the door, and it was some time 
before he thought it decent to advance and move the cur- 
tain of the bed. 

He lifted the light and held it over the dead man for a 
few moments. Then he laid down the lamp again. He 
had expected to find him dead ; and he could not help 
feeling that the man’s dying when he had expected was 
something of a compliment to his professional capacity. 

Once more he looked at the girl as she lay there mo- 
tionless beneath the burden of her sorrow. He laid his 
hand upon her shoulder very softly, saying in a whisper : 

“ My poor child ! my poor child ! ” 

She did not stir for some moments, and the doctor be- 
gan to feel that he had intruded. In a short time, how- 
ever, she arose, calm and self-possessed; it did not even 
appear that she had wept. Hers was a grief too deep for 
tears, the doctor could see without difficulty ; nor could he 
endeavour to soothe it by the utterances of the very choice 
phrases regarding the uncertainty of life and the necessity 
for submitting to the decrees of Providence— phrases 
which he had at his command, and which he generally 
found consoling to the bereaved with whom he came in 
contact, especially to the next of kin to persons known to 
liave died intestate. He felt that silence on his part was 
the best way to meet the eloquent silence of the girl’s grief. 

He did not, however, think that the proprieties of the 


38 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


occasion demanded so much reserve from him as an avoid- 
ance of such an expression of his sympathy as would bo 
shown by pressing* the girl’s hand. He accordingly took 
one of her hands in his own, pressing it tenderly, as a 
father might his child’s — exactly. But she did not look 
at him, nor did she return his pressure. She gave one 
glance at the bed, and turned away with a little shud- 
der ; then in an abstracted way her eyes rested upon the 
portmanteau. Yes, it was fast locked, and she had the 
keys in her pocket. She then suffered herself to be led 
slowdy out of this room, where the light of the untrimmed 
lamp glowed dimly over the white curtains that hid the 
white face from sight. 

When the good doctor had led her to her own room he 
spoke for the first time. 

“ You must try and get some sleep now. Miss Liscomb,” 
he said ; “it is your duty to bear up, and not to yield to 
your grief. You have always got a friend in me, my 
child; you must trust me implicitly.” 

“ And I do— I do,” she said earnestly. “ You have been 
so good to me already, and I shall obey you, and not let 
myself be overcome.” 

It was now past midnight. The girl heard the doctor 
leave the hotel, and as she stood at the window of her 
room she could hear his footsteps passing away on the 
empty street. Then all w^as silence. 

She stood at the window thinking her thoughts for 
a long time ; but, long as she stood, the time was not suffi- 
cient to exhaust her thoughts. Then she found herself 
looking, first at a little key that she held in her hand, 
then at the seal with the few words scratched upon the 
bottom of the inner box. Finally, she knelt dowm by her 
bedside and thanked Heaven that she had been enabled to 
soothe the last moments of the man by whom she had 
been watching. She rose from her knees, feeling that it 
was indeed a blessed privilege that had been accorded to 
her, besides being a blessed thing for the man to have had 
near him one in whom he could trust. She felt refreshed 
by her prayer ; and so she fell quietly asleep. 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


39 


Her good friend had been inquiring for her before she 
had awakened, she learned from the servant who answered 
her bell in the morning. He had called ; but, finding that 
she was still in bed, he had ordered her not to be disturbed, 
and had promised to return. She was annoyed with her- 
self for having slept so long, and for having awakened with 
such a feeling of being refreshed. 

It was not long before the doctor returned and was ad- 
mitted into her sitting-room. He expressed the satisfac- 
tion he felt at observing her calmness, and he trusted that 
she might continue to be self-possessed. 

“I shall, my dear friend. I feel that I must do so;” 
and, to do her justice, this was the feeling that was upper- 
most on her mind at that moment. 

“ That is right,” said the doctor. “ Now, you will not, 
I trust, think me wanting in sensitiveness. Miss Liscomb, 
if I allude to the obsequies of your father ? ” The girl gave 
a wince ; and her lips began to tremble, but she recovered 
herself. “ I feel for you,” he went on ; “ for I am aware 
that any allusion to the painful duty which is before you 
must be an agony to you. I would spare you any thought 
in the matter if you would let me.” 

“No, no,” she said ; “I am not as other girls. I shall 
not shrink from any duty, however terrible. Pray talk to 
me as if I were a man, doctor. I can bear everything.” 

“ Then perhaps you w ill tell me if you wmuld wush 
the remains conveyed to any particular place for inter- 
ment; and perhaps you would communicate with some of 
your friends— wdth your father’s man of business.” 

“ Of course, of course,” she answered. “ I shall write 
to him without the delay of a moment. 

“ Then you would not desire to have his remains re- 
moved to your late place of residence — Baymouth, I think 
you said it w^as ? ” 

She looked at him steadily in the face, saying gently : 

“ No, no. What does it matter where the frail dust is 
laid ? Ah, nothing.” 

“ Nothing— nothing,” said the doctor, musingly. “ Only 
some persons have strange desires in this way, especially 


40 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


in the last moments of their life. However, now that I am 
aware of your intentions in this sad matter, I need trouble 
you no longer. Only I might ask you if you wouid desire 
the interment delayed until the arrival of your fathers 
business man ? ” 

Philippa looked at him with an expression of inquiry 
on her face. 

“ Why should I desire that ? ” she asked ; and Dr. Carse- 
well almost felt that he had been coarse in suggesting such 
a possibility. ‘‘ No, no,” she continued, sadly; “ my poor 
father did not seek for such worldly friends to follow him 
to his grave. Enough if his daughter and the physician 
who soothed him in his last hours follow him to where he 
is to be laid. He recognised your great kindness to him 
and to me, my dear friend.” His head was bent over her 
hand, and so soon as he raised it she went into her bed- 
room, and returned in a few moments with the seal which 
the dying man had given to her. 

“ He desired me to give you this little trinket,” she said. 
“Take it. Doctor Carsewell, wear it for his sake.” She 
turned away hastily and passed into the other room ; and 
Doctor Carsewell, without a word, but full of thoughts, 
deep and sad, departed. 

For the remainder of the day Miss Liscomb occupied 
herself writing a letter, which was, when complete, as fol- 
lows: — 


“ Dear Mr. Thompson, — I can scarcely w^rite to you 
the terrible news that I have. My beloved father is no 
more. He died here last night in my arms. 

“ It will be a dreadful shock to you — but what to me ? 
— I am heart-broken. 

“We were going to stay for a few weeks at some quiet 
little village on the coast of Wales — for I had long been 
aware of my father’s suffering from depression of spirits, 
the result of too close attention to business; though he 
would never give in to any one that he suffered. Alas, it 
was too late ! We had just got as far as Utterhaven when 
he broke down. I still thought that care and perfect re- 


TPIE MAIDEN PLANS. 


41 


tirement would make him well again. I was mistaken. 
There was something upon his mind that bowed him to 
the grave— a burden that I would willingly have shared 
with him if he had permitted me. Heaven willed it to be 
otherwise. He grew gradually weaker and weaker, until 
last night he passed away, retaining consciousness to the 
end, 

“ I cannot write anything more. Come to me if you 
can spare the time. 

“ Believe me, yours sincerely, 

“Philippa Liscomb.” 

She put this letter in a cover and addressed it: — 

“W. Thompson, Esq., 

“ Messrs. Liscomb and Thompson, 

“ Baymouth.” 

She held it before her for some time, reflecting that it 
could not be sent from Steeplecross until the mail car 
called the next morning. It would thus not reach Bay- 
mouth until the evening of the next day ; and it was quite 
impossible that, if this Mr. Thompson should think of 
coming to Steeplecross, he could arrive before the evening 
of the third day. She saw clearly that her friend the doc- 
tor would be the only friend at the interment of the man 
who was lying in the room at the end cf the corridor. 

Then the quiet evening came on; and as the girl sat 
there in the silent room, she could hear the sound of sub- 
dued footsteps upon the corridor, the opening and the soft 
closing of doors, and voices sinking to whispers as the 
speakers passed the room. The maid-servant came to her 
as it grew dim, to know if she wished for lights ; but Miss 
Liscomb did not wish for lights, so she sat there in the 
darkness. 

Suddenly she rose and went to the window, and looked 
out to where that splendid star was glowing beneath the 
moon as she had seen it on the previous evening. She 
wondered if it would ever seem the same to her as it had 
been before. Would she ever be able to look upon it 
without seeing, between that Star of Love and herself, the 


42 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


shadow of that dying man, whose ej'^es had looked out 
with hers to that star ? She turned away from the western 
sky, and gazed out to where the waters grew darker towards 
the south ; and there she seemed to see the dark hull of 
the ship which had come across the sinking moon two 
nights before, when she had stood, and not alone, by the 
rugged coast anxiously awaiting its coming. 

She moved away from the window and sat down in the 
darkness. She began to think of all that lay before her on 
the path that she had now elected to tread ; and again that 
old soothing thought returned to her: that she had indeed 
been the means Providence had emploj^ed for comforting 
the last hours of the man whom she had seen die. What a 
blessing it was that the great injustice which would have 
been done to that man’s son, Alfred Beutham, had she not 
been beside his father to carry out his last intentions re- 
garding the wil], had been averted! It was averted; for 
had she not the will in her possession, which woukUshow 
Alfred Bentham that he had been forgiven by his father; 
or, rather, that his father had come to see that he had 
no need of forgiveness, having done no wrong ? 

She tried to feel soothed by this reflection, and by re- 
solving that she would lose no time in seeking for the son 
of the man who lay in the room at the end of the corridor, 
and in telling him all that she alone could tell regarding 
his father’s death, besides giving him the will that had 
been entrusted to her. With this resolution on her mind 
she gradually yielded to the influence of the darkness and 
her fatigue, and fell asleep in her chair. 

She awoke with a sudden start, and a consciousness of 
having heard something that had frightened her, she 
knew not why. She listened with that unknown fear 
upon her ; and this is what she heard — the quick footsteps 
of some one upon the corridor — of some one who evidently 
did not know that anything unusual had taken place to 
call for the subdued tread the others had assumed in pass- 
ing. Then there followed the whistling of an operatic air 
in a listless way, and then just outside her door there 
sounded a man’s voice calling out a name. At the sound 


TtlE MAIDEN PLANS. 


43 


of the name that echoed along the corridor, the girl gave 
a cry of terror, for the voice had called along the corridor 
a name she had heard once before. 

“ Bentham, I say ! Alfred - Ben tham — where are you ? 
Are you going to keep a fellow waiting all night ? ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

BEARS UPON THE MAKING OF ENGAGEMENTS IN ADVANCE 
WITH PROVIDENCE AND OTHERS. 

The maid, who had hastened to the room at the sound 
of her cry, found Philippa standing with her face deathly 
pale, her hands grasping the back of a chair. The sickly 
yellow light of the candle the maid carried served to in- 
crease the expression of terror which was upon the face of 
the young lady. 

Miss Liscomb made a sign to her to shut the door, and 
when she had obeyed, the two stood facing each other 
without uttering a word for some time. Gradually Miss 
Liscomb seemed to recollect herself, and a faint smile 
passed over her face. 

“ How foolish I was ! ” she said, in a very weak voice. 
“ I was asleep, and was startled from a terrible dream by 
hearing a footstep outside the door. I had no idea I had 
fallen into so nervous a state.” 

“ It’s all the want of a light, miss,” said the servant 
confidentially. “You’ve no idea what CQmpany a light 
is when a body is alone. It’s like what a pipe is to a man 
is a light to us, miss. You should have let me leave a 
candle when I wanted to.” 

“ Yes, yes, you are right,” said Philippa, seating her- 
self, but turning her face away from the cherished light 
that flickered in the servant’s hand. 

“To be sure I’m right, miss; and I said so when Mr. 
Wentworth ran down to tell us of the harm he had done 
without knowing of it; for he hadn’t heard anything of — 
4 


u 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


of — you being here, miss, when he talked loud and called 
out to the other. The master, miss, he was angrier nor I 
ever see him, for he has took to you wonderful; and if it 
had been any other body but Mr. Wentworth he would 
have ” 

“Who is Mr. Wentworth?” asked Miss Liscomb 
hastily, interrupting the girl. 

“ Mr. Wentworth, miss ? Oh, he’d be the last in the 
world to do anything to hurt your feelings. He’s the gen- 
tleman that owns us all.” 

“That owns -” 

“ The half of the town belongs to him, miss. He lives 
handy when he’s at home, which isn’t often.” 

“ And the — the other ? ” said Miss Liscomb. 

“ What other, miss ? ” 

“You said there was another — another man — the friend 
of Mr. Wentworth.” 

“Oh, Mr. Bentham, miss.” 

Miss Liscomb did not give the least perceptible start as 
the servant pronounced the name; there was not a look 
of more than casual inquiry upon her face as she repeated 
the name slowly after the other. 

“ Yes, that was the name Mr. Wentworth, you say, called 
along the corridor — Bentham— Alfred Bentham. Who 
is he ? ” 

“ He’s another gentleman, miss, a fiaend of Mr. Went- 
worth’s. We don’t know so much about him. He’s an 
artist, though not one of the Kodakers. He lias come 
down on a visit to Mr. Wentworth. Now ITl leave the 
candle, miss, and ITl go and fetch a couple more that 
will last all night. There’s no company like a light 
when you’re any way nervous, as you’ve good reason to 
be.” 

“ Thank you,” Miss Liscomb said ; “ but I am not in 
the least inclined to be nervous, I only got a little start 
just awaking from sleep. It was so dark I thought it was 
midnight, and so I was startled to hear the footsteps and 
the voices. Does Mr.— Mr.— what did you say his name 
was ? ” 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


45 


“Wentworth, miss.” 

“No, no; the other.” 

“Mr. Bentham.” 

“ Ah, yes, Mr. Bentham. Does he stay at the hotel ? ” 

“ Not he, miss ; he stays with his friend. He was do- 
ing some painting to-day, and came in to meet Mr. Went- 
worth, who was in London, I hear. They’re likel3^ enough 
gone home now, for it was only because Mr. Bentham 
was speaking to the doctor that Mr. Wentworth had to 
call him. Good-night, miss, and if you want another can- 
dle I’ll fetch you one.” 

Miss Liscomb smiied faintly as the maid left the room. 
But when the door was shut she rose from her seat and 
went to the door and locked it. Most women can think 
better with the door locked. 

She had been reflecting only a few hours before how 
fortunate it was that she had been beside the man who, 
when at the point of death, had entrusted her with his 
last will and testament. She had gone down on her knees 
to try and make herself believe that she was thankful for 
the privilege which Providence had bestowed upon her in 
making her the means of the accomplishment of an act of 
justice. She had, of course, known that in the finding of 
Alfred Bentham she might have a great deal of trouble: it 
was an event unlikely to take place for a considerable time ; 
and in the interval which she believed must elapse she 
would pass awa.y from this unattractive village, where the 
exact circumstances of the death of Mr. Andrew Bentham 
were known. 

But now she went across the room and stood beside 
the door, trying if she could hear any voices. She did 
succeed in catching some sounds from below, and she did 
not doubt that Alfred Bentham’s voice was among those 
that she heard. 

She felt that Providence had been over kind to her. 
She had not rebelled in her heart nor murmured at the' 
decree which had been laid upon her to search through 
the world for Alfred Bentham, in order that she might 
tell him how his father had died forgiving him. This act 


46 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


of justice she would accomplish whatever difficulty might 
be in her way ; for she felt — or at any rate she tried to 
feel — that its fulfilment was laid on her by this power 
which she called Providence. Yet now she found that 
she was spared all the trouble of finding Alfred Bentham. 
She had only to open that door against which she was 
standing, and Alfred Bentham would be before her. At 
the very thought her hand went down to the bolt, and 
she held it fast, as though she might be still further 
spared the trouble of finding Alfred Bentham by the 
door's opening of itself. 

She was quite bewildered by the strangeness of the cir- 
cumstances in the midst of which she found herself. She 
tried to reconstruct her plans in such a way as should at 
least avert disaster from herself. She felt that she must 
do this at all hazards — at the risk even of failing to ac- 
complish the Sacred Mission which she had just thanked 
Providence for having entrusted to her. It would be 
hard for her to have to throw over Providence and the 
Sacred Mission, but she felt that she was equal to doing it 
when the right time should come. 

It had, however, not yet come; for, after about an 
hour’s thoughtfulness, she felt her bewilderment passing 
from her. She was able to look at everything— at every 
one, if necessary— in the face. A good deal that was per- 
plexing had taken place; but still she felt that there re- 
mained so much in her favour as should enable her to 
pursue her way to success. She had a good deal of confi- 
dence in her own powers of turning awkward circum- 
stances to work in her favour; and there can hardly be a 
doubt that she had good reason for allowing her confi- 
dence to rest in herself; she felt that her trust was much 
less likely to be betrayed under these conditions than if 
she were to place it elsewhere. 

All her thoughts were turned upon Alfred Bontham. 
She had no thought for his friend, whose name she had 
just learned was Mr. Wentworth. She could allot a cer- 
tain definite part to be played by Mr. Alfred Bentham in 
the drama of her future life, being acquainted with cer- 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


47 


tain qualifications on his side for the enacting of a well- 
defined part; but, not knowing anything of the other save 
that he was the friend of Alfred Bentham, she could not 
appoint to him any share of importance in this pleasant 
little drama which she was planning. 

She went to her bed; but it was very late before she 
fell asleep, and when she did so it may be assumed that 
she had settled a good deal for the future. She felt that 
she could allow herself some sleep, having made several 
very important engagements in advance. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

STATES HOW A YOUNG WOMAN WENT OUT IN THE DARK 
AND RETURNED IN THE MOONLIGHT. 

The doctor came to her to pay his usual morning visit 
rather earlier than usual. He expressed his regret that 
she had received so great a shock to her nerves on the 
previous evening, and trusted that she had not suffered 
from the effects of the fright. 

“ I assure you, my dear, I was quite annoyed when I 
learned what had occurred,” he said. “ I had given the 
strictest orders that no one was to go along that passage, 
and I do not think I was disobeyed during the day; but, 
you see, Maurice Wentworth having been up to London 
did not know anything of — of the sad occurrence, and so 
went in search of his friend, and he thought nothing of 
shouting along the passage. You could not have an idea 
how much concerned he was when he heard that his 
carelessness had affected you. He desired me to express 
to you the regret he feels.” 

“ My dear Doctor Carsewell,” said the girl, smiling 
gently, “ I beg that you will say nothing more about this 
most stupid matter. Pray do not allude to my weakness 
except” — she paused for an instant — “except to tell Mr. 
— Mr. Wentworth and — his friend how' very sorry I am 


48 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


that I should lead them to suppose they had been guilty 
of any carelessness.” 

“ They will be glad to know that you are not affected 
by the shock you must have sustained,” said the doctor. 

“And now, my dear friend,” said Miss Liscomb, laying 
her hand upon the doctor’s, as if anxious to change the 
subject, “ will you tell me what further arrangements you 
have made ? ” 

Her voice had sunk to a whisper, and it ended with 
what seemed like a sigh. 

“ To-morrow, my child,” he replied, after a little pause 
— “ to-morrow we shall commit the dust to the dust, the 
ashes to the ashes.” 

She gave a little movement at the phrase; for there 
flashed across her a recollection of the last words of the 
man who lay in the room at the end of the corridor. 

“x\ll the painful formalities,” continued the doctor, “I 
have had made easy to me, owing to the nature of my 
profession.” 

“ What would I do unless you were beside me ? ” said 
the young lady, looking into his eyes with her own, which 
were so wonderfully expressive of gratitude, or perhaps of 
an affection that was the result of gratitude. “We shall 
be the only mourners,” she continued ; “ for I do not think 
that Mr. Thom])Son, my father’s business partner, will put 
himself about to come down here at once. He may, how- 
ever, be here in time,” 

After a little further conversation the doctor went away, 
and once more Miss Liscomb was left alone. 

She went to the window after she had partaken of 
lunch, and listlessly drew aside the blind which had been 
kept down in accordance with modern ideas of propriety. 

She looked down to the road and saw the doctor stand- 
ing at the corner of the hotel, in conversation with a man 
whom she took care to observe attentively. He was per- 
haps thirty years of age, and of something more than 
average stature. She thought that he was the most dis- 
tinguished-looking man whom she had ever seen. 

In a few moments both he and the doctor glanced 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


49 


towards the door of the hotel, and then she saw that they 
w^ere joined by another person, who was also a young 
man, though perhaps a few years the senior of the doctor’s 
companion. He was not quite so tall by perhaps an inch, 
and his features were more clearly defined. His hair was 
somewhat darker, and his eyes were more restless than 
those of the other man. 

The girl watched the group conversing together for some 
time; then the doctor left his companions and walked in 
his usual quiet way towards his own house. She saw the 
younger men smile together as they looked after him. 
She knew the significance of their siuile: she fancied that 
she could hear them mutter some careless phrase regard- 
ing the good doctor’s weakness. She wondered whether 
they were saying ‘‘ Poor old chap ! ” or “ Clever girl ! ” 
Then she saw them light cigars and walk away together. 

She allowed the blind to fall into its place, and stood 
in the centre of the dim room, asking herself which of the 
two strangers was Alfred Bentham. She knew that either 
of them must he the son of the man whom she had seen 
die two evenings before. Good heavens! to think that 
there was the son walking upon the road — entering the 
inn — passing the room where the man who had begotten 
him lay dead! She felt almost overwhelmed with her re- 
fiections from the standpoint of what seemed to her a great 
mystery. It was the first remarkable coincidence that she 
had experienced. She had never been a great believei* in 
coincidence, and she did not think much of the art of 
such books and plays as were worked out through such 
an agency. The presence of Alfred Bentham at this place 
would, she felt, constitute her entire experience of coin- 
cidence — she hoped it would, at any rate. A succession of 
coincidences would make her feel, she thought, that, in her 
way through life, she must take into account the operations 
of a power whose exact force it was impossible to calculate 
upon. The force of her own powers she was at all times 
capable of calculating. 

Then it was that she began to wonder if this hitherto 
unknown power was equal to such an operation as the 


50 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


bringing of Alfred Bentham not merely into the house 
where his father lay dead, but into the very room where 
he lay. If it went so far, what was there to hinder his 
looking down upon the face of his dead father and recog- 
nising it ? 

All the day she was overwhelmed by the contempla- 
tion of this awful possibility. Every step upon the long 
corridor startled her, and caused her to strain every nerve, 
listening if it might not be the step of Alfred Bentham— 
a passive instrument in the hands of that power which 
was not to be calculated upon. Towards evening she felt 
the strain on her nerves insupportable. She rang her bell 
and surprised the maid who attended by telling her of her 
intention of going out for a walk while it was dusk so that 
she might return before it was dark. 

She left the little hotel unseen by any one, and, pass- 
ing away from the village, got upon the narrow moorland 
track by which she had come from the coast a few nights 
previously. 

Wandering on and on for more than an hour, she 
reached the utmost point of that rugged coast way and 
looked out upon the waters. Then all at once there came 
to her the recollection of that former evening, when she 
liad stood upon these rocks by the side of another. Again 
she seemed to hear the beating of the oars and the voices 
of the men. 

A curious sense of loneliness came over her — she 
could not account for it — but it forced from her the cry of 
one who is desolate: 

My father, my father, come back to me, or let me go 
to you ! ” 

For a short time she really felt that she would like to 
be able to see the dark hull of that ship reappearing— to 
hear the measured beats of the oars of that boat which she 
had heard before; she stood for a long time looking out 
over that leaden sea. She turned away without having 
lost anything of that lonely feeling which had oppressed 
hei*; but before she had begun to retrace her steps she per- 
ceived the figure of a man standing silently only a little 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


51 


way apart, in outline against the dull sky. She did not 
fail to see that he was observing her, and she felt certain 
that he had been doing so for some time. 

In an instant she recalled all that she bad said and 
done during the previous few minutes. She knew that 
she had not said or done anything that was not dramatic- 
ally consistent with her surroundings. She also saw that 
the figure was that of a tall man, and with the recollection 
of having lately seen two tall young men, she was rather 
glad when she noticed that he was about advancing to 
her. 

The man did advance to her. Then she saw that he 
was the taller of the two men whom she had seen at the 
door of the little hotel. He advanced and raised his 
hat. 

“ I would not venture to speak to you now. Miss Lis- 
comb,'’ he said, ‘‘ if it were not that I think I should take 
the earliest opportunity to tell you how deeply I regret 
having been the cause of the siiock you received last 
night. My name is Maurice Wentworth, and it was I 
who so inconsiderately shouted out the name of my friend 
Alfred Bentham beside your door. I really feel that no 
apology is sufficient to atone for my want of considera- 
tion.” 

“ No explanation is needed, Mr. Wentworth,” said she, 
looking into his face as it bent forward with an expression 
of earnestness in keeping with the words he had spoken. 
“ It is not necessary to say anything on the matter. Doc- 
tor Carsewell told me that you did not know anything of 

—of ” she faltered, and turned away her head with a 

quick movement. 

“ I did not know of your painful position, Miss Lis- 
comb,” he answered, '‘or indeed I would have felt for you 
as deeply as I do now. I hope you will not think it an 
impertinence on the part of a stranger when I tell you 
that indeed I feel for you with all my heart. Offers of 
sympathy do not count for much, God knows; but, believe 
me, mine are sincere.” 

Almost by instinct the girl put out her hand. 


52 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ Such sympathy counts for a great deal with me, Mr. 
Wentworth,” she said. “ I am touched— deeply touched— 
by the consideration shown to me by strangers during the 
past few days, the most trying days of my life. I felt so 
desolate just now— so desolate! but now I think I feel 
stronger.” 

She had already taken a few slow steps along the 
moorland track. “ You are returning to the inn,” he said. 
“ So am I. I have to meet my friend there. But perhaps 
you would prefer walking alone ? ” 

“Oh, no,” she said simply. “You— you can under- 

stand.” 

“I can,” he said, in the low tone of deep sympathy. 
“ I think I can.” 

They walked round the village to the hotel ; hut before 
they had reached that house they were met by the doctor. 
Mr. Wentworth hastened to explain the Occident of his 
being with Miss Liscomb. 

“ I was going in search of Miss Liscomb,” said the doc- 
tor. “ I am glad you have been with her. The fact is, a 
rather singular thing has occurred, which causes Mr. 
Bentham to wish to see you. Miss Liscomb.” 

“ Mr. Bentham wishes to see me 1 ” the girl repeated, 
but with no degree of surprise. 

“Yes, my dear; he is waiting at the hotel.” 

The girl made no answer; and the three walked up to 
the hotel in silence that was almost embarrassing. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CONCERNS A MAIDEN’S PRAYER, AND HOW IT WAS 
ANSWERED. 

Miss Liscomb went upstairs to her sitting-room. The 
maid had acted up to her theory of the enlivening influ- 
ence of candles, having lighted two of these genial flames 
in the room. Was it the ghostly illumination that made 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


53 


the reflection of her own face which Miss Liscomb saw in 
the mirror seem so pale ? 

The face was undoubtedly very pale — nay, it was white. 
Had that power over which she had been thinking* all the 
day, extended its operations in her absence ? Had it led 
Alfred Bentham into the room at the end of the corridor ? 
That w^as the question which the next few minutes would 
answer. Well, she would not shrink from the answer, 
whatever it might be. 

“ Tell Doctor Carsewell that I will he glad to see him 
and his friend now,” she said to the maid. Then she 
stood up in the middle of the room to await the coming of 
her visitors. 

In a very short time the doctor entered the room, fol- 
lowed by the other man whom she had seen talking to 
him as she had looked from her wundow in the afternoon. 
She was now facing those earnest grey eyes as the man 
looked at her for an instant before the doctor said, 

“ I hope you will allow me to present to you Mr. Ben- 
tham, my dear. Mr. Alfred Bentham, Miss Liscomb.” 

She inclined her head. Could they not hear her heart 
beating, she wondered. 

“I showed Mr. Bentham this seal, Miss Liscomb” — 
The doctor held out the small gold seal which she had 
given him as a memento of the man whom she had 
watched die. 

“ I should not have thought of thrusting myself upon 
you. Miss Liscomb,” said the young man, as the doctor 
held forward the trinket, “ hut that I have a great desire 
to learn if that seal was got in England, and, if so, when 
it was got. I beg that you will not think me idly inquisi- 
tive.” 

Miss Liscomb smiled sadly as she looked at the seal 
which the doctor held out to her, as though he meant her 
to take it. She would not touch it again. The sigh that 
she gave before she spoke was an involuntary one; it was 
a sigh of great relief. 

“ I do not think he got it in England,” she said in a 
low voice. “No, I believe he got it abroad: in South 


54 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


America, I think. I am sorry I can tell you no more of 
its history, Mr. Bentham; this, I fear, you will think very 
vague.” 

“ I do not think it vague,” he cried; ‘‘ it is enough for 
me. Miss Liscomb, that seal belonged to my father.” 

She started, and looked up curiously to the earnest face 
of the young man. ‘‘ But it was got in South America,” 
she said. 

“Exactly. South America,” he cried, as eagerly as be- 
fore. “South America — that confirms what I say. My 
father is living in South America, Miss Liscomb. It must 
have been a dear friend to whom he gave that seal, for it 
was sent to him many j^ears ago by his only brother when 
in India. Oh, I knew it in a moment. Ah, my God, 
what memories it brings back ! To think of my seeing it 
now here when one is dead, and the other ” 

He had seated himself, though the doctor and Miss Lis- 
comb remained standing. He had been addressing Phi- 
lippa at the beginning of his sentence, but he had turned 
away from her and was staring into vacancy, as he con- 
cluded with almost passionate vehemence. After a little 
pause he seemed to recollect himself. 

“ Pardon me. Miss Liscomb,” he said, as he rose to his 
feet; “ but the sight of that little thing and the circum- 
stances of my seeing it carried me away for an instant. 
Your father must have been a dear friend of mine. You 
may always rely upon my friendship, if you should ever 
need it. It is not much I have to offer.” 

“ It is a great deal, Mr. Bentham,” she said quickly. “ I 
feel that, indeed, we are bound together by no common 
bond of friendship.” 

She put out her hand to him ; and he held it for some 
moments longer than was necessary, the doctor, standing 
by, felt. He was getting uneasy. 

“ Now, Bentham,” he said, hastily, “ we must beg Miss 
Liscomb to pardon our intrusion, and depart.” 

“ My dear friend,” cried Miss Liscomb turning to him, 
“ you make me deeper in your debt every hour.” 

He scarcely knew what she meant by that. He thought 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


55 


it safe to shake his head with a deprecating smile as he said, 
“ Good-night, my child; God bless you ! ” 

When the two visitors had gone, Miss Liscomb stood 
again before her glass. Her face was not quite so white as 
it had been when she had seen it last. 

“ Would God it were morning! ” she said. 

When the next morning came, she said, “ Would God 
it were evening I ” 

The doctor said he thought he could understand the 
shrinking of the girl from the ceremony of a funeral; it 
was not unnatural, he felt, that the girl who had not 
shrunk from doing her duty as a daughter, but had 
watched by her father in his last moments, should yet 
shrink from seeing him whom she loved committed to the 
dust. No, it was not unnatural. 

The girl could only look into his face in an endeavour 
to express how deeply she felt his appreciation of her na- 
ture. 

When he had left her she knelt down and looked out 
through the corner of her blind where she had drawn it a 
little way aside. But in an instant after she dropped the 
blind and fell back with a sudden cry, though all she saw 
was that Alfred Bentham was walking immediately be- 
hind that hearse — that hearse containing that corpse! 

Once more that thought which had overwhelmed her 
the day before, returned to her — the thought of the limit- 
less range of that power which though incalculable in its 
influence had still to be calculated upon. It appeared to 
her impossible that that power of circumstance which had 
brought Alfred Bentham there should stop short at this 
point, and not reveal to him all that remained to be re- 
vealed. Was it possible that he should be there — that he 
should, perhaps, have his hand upon that coffin and assist 
to put it into the earth, and yet remain in ignorance of all 
that she— a stranger — could tell him ? 

For an hour she did not stir from where she had been 
kneeling on the floor. She prayed where she knelt on the 
floor — prayed for her own safety — that the operations of 


56 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


that power which she dreaded more than she dreaded God, 
might be stayed for another hour. 

Not until the second hour had passed did she venture 
to rise. Her prayer had been heard. 

The remainder of that day she passed in complete se- 
clusion. She quite expected that Mr. Thompson, her fa- 
ther’s partner at Baymouth, would visit her. Mr. Thomp- 
son was a thoroughlj^ nasty man. She knew that he hated 
her father. How could he do otherwise, she had frequent- 
ly asked, when every one in Baymouth had been accus- 
tomed to talk about how much gratitude he owed to Mr. 
Liscomb, who had raised him from being an office boy to 
be a partner in the firm ? Philippa knew enough of hu- 
man nature — and there is a good deal of it to be found in 
a manufacturing town of a hundred thousand inhabitants 
— to be able to make every allowance for Mr. Thompson’s 
dislike to her father. She knew how she herself would 
feel if she were in Mr. Thompson’s place. 

Mr. Thompson was by nature a suspicious man. That 
is to say, he was a good business man — to be a good busi- 
nessman is to suspect every other good business man — and 
she was prepared for a very disagreeable interview with 
him. He Avould probably make some very strong allusions 
to the unbusiness-like aspect of the incident of Mr. Lis- 
comb’s death; and his references to her fathers offences 
against the law affecting debtor and creditor would not, 
she believed, be so vague as to be past her capacity to un- 
derstand ; but she felt convinced that Mr. Thompson would 
listen to reason — to the proposals which she meant to make 
to him. 

She was not mistaken. Mr. Thompson did not arrive 
until the day after the funeral, however; but when 
he found himself in the presence of Miss Liscomb he was 
disposed to be brutal— by no means so brutal as he meant 
to be: on his way to Steeplecross he had rehearsed quite a 
number of brutal things to say to her, by way of reveng- 
ing himself upon her father, to whom he owed so much; 
but somehow, with the young woman’s eyes fixed upon 
his face, he forgot a good deal of his part. He was, how- 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


57 


ever, able to assure her that her father’s recklessness in 
trading and in renewing bills of exchange had made 
the firm practically bankrupt, and now he had fur- 
ther complicated matters by dying. He admitted that 
for Mr. Liscomb himself his death was singularly oppor- 
tune, but for the interests of the firm it was damnable. 
Mr. Thompson repeated this hideous wmrd several times 
as he paced the room ; and when he had nearly exhausted 
himself. Miss Liscomb ventured to explain to him that she 
was more anxious to talk over the future of the firm than 
of its past. She had, she reminded him, a considerable in- 
terest in its future, being her father’s only child. When 
he laughed in her face and told her that he reckoned on 
her having sufficient interest to procure her admission to 
a workhouse, she also laughed in recognition of the ready 
wit of Mr. Thompson; but announced her intention of 
submitting that delicate question to a court of law, men- 
tioning as her adviser the name of a certain attorney-at- 
law who, it was whispered at Baymouth, knew enough 
about Mr. Thompson to drive him out of town at any mo- 
ment-some people, whom Mr. Thompson had disobliged, 
said to hang him. 

From this point Mr. Thompson’s brutality subsided; 
and in half an hour he had made terms with Miss Lis- 
comb. She had agreed to accept from him the sum of 
one hundred pounds, im two payments of fifty pounds 
each, during the year commencing on the first day of the 
next month; the second year she was to receive two hun- 
dred pounds; and the third year three hundred; and this 
was to be the maximum she was to draw out of the firm 
of which her father had been the head. 

She thought it rather curious that Mr. Thompson had 
not in her presence brought any accusation of fraud 
against her father. Her father had confessed to her, be- 
fore they had left Baymouth together, that he had been 
guilty of fraud. How, then, did it come that Mr. Thomp- 
son remained in ignorance on this rather important mat- 
ter ? 

She did not trouble herself thinking much about this 


58 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


p )int. She only felt exultant, being conscious of having 
got the better of Mr. Thompson. 

She slept extremely well that night. 


CHAPTER *X. 

MARKS THE ADVANCE OF A YOUNG WOMAN TOWARDS 
FREEDOM. 

Two days afterwards Philippa Liscomb stood in the 
middle of her room at the inn, feeling that she was quite 
equal to any contest with circumstances that might be 
forced upon her. She felt disposed to sneer at such per- 
sons as had failed in their aims in life. Clumsy fools! 
Her father — well, she was disposed to take a lenient view 
of his case: he had been foolish, rash, unsuccessful in 
business; but he had been clever enough to become the 
father of a clever daughter; and that was something in 
his favour. It was his clever daughter who had provided 
him with a plan for leaving the country, and who had 
actually carried out this plan for him, so that he was *now 
crossing the Atlantic in comfort — comparative comfort — 
instead of being at home, endeavouring to convince his 
partner, Mr. Thompson, and perhaps a British jury, that 
he had acted uprightly in that matter of bill-signing. She 
understood that his indiscretion had something to do with 
bills, though she did not burden her mind with the dry de- 
tails of this stupid affair. The details of dishonesty in busi- 
ness — in anything — are, she knew, usually far more piquant 
than the details of ordinary commercial probity; but still 
she had not worried over the various points upon which her 
father had dwelt in confessing to her the damaging effects 
of his latest transaction : she never could master the ele- 
ments of chiaroscuro in the picture painted by her father 
of any business transaction. She only knew that success 
in commerce is commendable; and that want of success 
is contemptible, occasionally criminal. This amount of 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


59 


knowledge was enough for her. She took her father’s 
word for it that he had been indiscreet, and she had un- 
dertaken the duty of saving him from the immediate con- 
sequences of his indiscretion. 

Well, she had done it. 

He had, to be sure, laughed in her face when she had 
first revealed to him the plan which she suggested it 
would be well to adopt to enable him to escape and to 
make her the centre of sympathetic, not commercial, in- 
jury. Yes, he had laughed, and had told her that she had 
been reading too many foolish novels. But she had per- 
sisted in her scheme; and now 

Well, now she was standing behind one of the curtains 
of the window, watching Alfred Bentham trying to light 
a cigar with a wax match in the face of the strong breeze 
that was blowing. She laughed to see him first make a 
lantern of his hands with the lighted match in the centre, 
and, when this device failed, take ofP his hat and endeav- 
our to effect his purpose within the recesses of the crown. 

Again she laughed as he flung away the blind match. 

“ What fools these men are ! ” 

Why could not Alfred Bentham cross the road and 
light his cigar, if he must, in the hall of the inn ? Or, 
better still, wdiy should he not cross the road and ask to 
be shown up to her sitting-room ? 

She knew perfectly well that he might do so without 
running the chance of being thought intrusive. The 
same sentiment that had admitted of the doctor’s kissing 
her on the cheek would allow of Alfred Bentham’s visit- 
ing her in her loneliness — yes, or Alfred Bentham’s friend, 
Mr. Wentworth. 

She watched Alfred Bentham stroll along the road 
with his un lighted cigar between his fingers: and when 
he had disappeared, she seated herself, and her eyes 
looked towards the dressing-bag which held the docu- 
ment that bore in various places the name of Alfred 
Bentham. 

If he were to enter the room, should she hand him that 
document ? 

5 


60 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


That was the question over which she pondered for a 
considerable time. How could she give that document to 
him without spoiling all her plans for the future— with- 
out imperilling the safety of her father— without ac- 
knowledging the fraud which had been perpetrated ? 

A fraud? Yes; she could not but acknowledge to 
herself that the carrying out of her plan involved the per- 
petration of a fraud — the fraud of pretending that the 
man who had died at the inn was her father. To be sure, 
its perpetration had injured no one as yet; though if she 
were to refrain from handing the will to Alfred Bentham, 
she would undoubtedly be doing him a great injury. She 
went to her dressing-bag and took out the document, she 
read it from beginning to end. It referred to property in 
England, to property in Brazil, to some thousands of 
pounds invested in English railway shares, to some thou- 
sands of dollars invested in American railway shares, to a 
half share in a certain silver mine, the name of which 
even Philippa, with her limited acquaintance with busi- 
ness matters, knew to mean wealth. 

The document slid from her hand and fell on the floor. 
She did not pick it up immediately, but kept her eyes 
fixed upon it, lying at her feet, for a long time. Suddenly 
at last she snatched it up and thrust it once again into her 
bag quite feverishly. She walked up and down the room 
nervously, but gradually became composed enough to 
smile, and to say in a whisper: 

“Yes, I will give it to him — yes, some day.” 

In another minute her smile had vanished. She 
sprang to her feet, and struck her hands together, cry- 
ing: 

“ Why should this foolish will business come between 
me and my plans ? What have I to do with that man 
and his affairs ? I do not want him or his railway shares 
and silver mines. I only want to be allowed to live my 
life!” 

That was just what she w^anted : to be given the chance 
of living a life that had hitherto been denied to her. But 
before long her nervous passion had subsided. She ac- 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


61 


quired tranquillity— that tranquillity which some people 
call resignation to the will of Providence. 

She felt, indeed, that it did not become a young wom- 
an, situated as she was, to repine because Providence had 
se:}n fit to— well, not exactly to interfere with the realisa- 
tion of her designs — she would not have stood that ; but to 
introduce certain incidental points in connection with 
her designs which made them, she thought, more difficult 
to realise. 

She looked upon Providence not exactly as a busybody, 
but as a sort of Queen’s Proctor, intervening when a suit 
is progressing rather too prosperously— applying the 
brake to the wheels of the chariot in which a jaunty co- 
respondent is riding to the fulfilment of his aims and 
those of the conniving petitioner. This Providence had 
seen fit to thrust that ridiculous document into her hand 
just as her plans were being realised. 

When she had first appeared at the hotel at Utterhaven 
and had learned by chance that an old man at the point 
of death had been put ashore from a ship and was lying 
in one of the rooms, this possibility of carrying out an ex- 
traordinary scheme had suggested itself to her. As every- 
thing that occurred afterwards brought her a step nearer 
to success, she began to have a very high opinion of 
Providence; but when she thought how she had involun- 
tarily been made the trustee, so to speak, of that old man, 
she felt greatly disappointed in Providence: she was not 
being handsomely treated by any means. Then came 
her period of resignation. She reflected upon the circum- 
stance of Alfred Bentham’s being a man — not an absurdly 
young man, but a man of perhaps thirty — she reflected 
upon the circumstance that it was in her power to place 
in that man’s hand a document which could make him 
wealthy; and then — then she became resigned to the Will 
of Heaven. 

And this was why she did not relieve herself of her 
trusteeship by burning the document; but carefully folded 
it up, and placed it at the bottom of her bag, locking 
it up. 


62 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


She was bendiug over the bag when the little maid 
knocked at her door and entered, to tell her that a gentle- 
man was inquiring for her downstairs. 

“Mr. Bentham ?” said Philippa, hastily, almost invol- 
untarily. 

“ No^ Miss,” said the maid. “ A young gentleman, this 
is his name — Mr. Edward Haven.” 

“Good Heavens!” cried Philippa, with some impa- 
tience in her tone. “ What can he be doing here ? Oh, 
let him come up — he is a relative — a sort of relation of 
mine.” 

The maid was young, but she was not so utterly inex- 
perienced as to be unable to recall instances, even in the 
neighbourhood of Steeplecross, when a sort of relation was 
convenient and almost welcome to a stranger at the inn. 

She left the room with an expression on her face that 
became a smirk as soon as she found herself outside. 


CHAPTER XI. 

CONTAINS SOME ACCOUNT OF A CONVERSATION BETWEEN ONE 
WHO HOPES AND ONE WHO PERCEIVES. 

The tears were in his eyes as he entered the room — 
there could be no doubt about that; and Philippa, becom- 
ing aware of the fact, and looking at his face, was so sur- 
prised, that not only did her own eyes overflow with tears, 
but she actually sobbed as well. That his appearance at 
this time should have produced such an im.pression upon 
her amazed her. She could not account for it on any 
rational grounds. She fancied that she knew herself 
thoroughly; but now she began to have a feeling— an un- 
pleasant feeling — that it would be necessary for her to 
reconsider some of the elements which she had hitherto 
believed to constitute her nature. 

Complete self-control was the foundation of the new 
scheme of life upon which she was hoping to enter ; but 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


G3 


she was now as unable to control her tears as she was 
unable to control liis lips that she felt upon her wet 
cheeks. 

“ Phil, Phil, dearest Phil, God pity you ! God pity 
you ! ” he murmured between his kisses. 

If she was twenty-two years of ag'e he was not more 
than twenty-three. He was a fresh-faced boy, with fair 
curly hair and a tall and slim figure. 

She was fast obtaining that control over herself which 
she had so unaccountably lost at the sight of his blue eyes 
suffused with tears. She wondered if he was equal to a 
quotation — something about a shorn lamb. 

He was not; but he was equal to another kiss or two 
— this was apparently the medium through which he 
meant to express his symjiathy; and she could not but 
acknowledge that a man’s kisses are more consoling than 
quotations. 

“ It’s over, Teddy,” she said, quietly, as she turned her 
head away so that his lips came upon her ear instead of 
her cheek. Well, it was better than nothing, he thought. 
“ It’s over, Teddy, I’m myself again. I— oh, I can’t under- 
stand it — I thought I was strong.” 

“ And so you are, Phil, strong enough to be a woman 
— to carry your burden alone.” 

She did not altogether understand what he meant. She 
understood his kisses so well that she could not help feel- 
ing that it was rather a pity she had forced him to express 
himself through the more perplexing medium of speech. 

“Yes,” she said, “that is what it is to be a woman: to 
bear a burden— alone— alone. I know that I .shall have to 
bear mine. My dear father— gone —gone ! ” 

She had moved to the window, and was gazing out to 
where the shore dwindled away into that haze that meant 
the sea. 

He was beside her in a moment, and made a sj^m pa- 
thetic grasp for her hand; but she moved it an inch or 
two, perhaps unconsciously, but certainly in a way that 
made him feel that she was herself again— that the mo- 
ments of sympathetic caressing were over. 


04 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ It is a blow,’’ he stammered after a pause — she seemed 
waiting for him to say something — “ yes, dear Phil, a great 
blow; I wish I could bear it in your place — you know that 
I have no dearer wish.” 

‘‘ 1 know how good you are — how brave, Teddy,” said 
she ; “ but how did you come to hear about — about what 
has happened ? ” 

“ That fellow Thompson has been talking,” said Teddy 
— he was now speaking in his usual voice, which had a 
note of joyousness in it. Previously his tone had had a 
trace of melancholy in it— a poor imitation of the melan- 
choly of the professional moralist. “Yes; Thompson will 
get his head broken some of these days. I’ll break it for 
him, damn him ! ” — he was getting more joyous every mo- 
ment. 

“What has poor Mr. Thompson been talking about?” 
she said. 

“ Oh, nothing that anyone pays any attention to,” he 
replied. “ Everyone at Baymouth has long ago taken the 
measure of Thompson. If you told me to break his head, 
I'd do it to-morrow — yes, before breakfast.” 

“ It was he who told you that I was here ? ” 

“ Not he; I heard it from someone else.” 

“But that someone else heard it from Mr. Thomp- 
son ? ” 

“ I daresay. Yes, he’ll be walking about with his head 
in a sling, if he doesn’t mind. I told him so.” 

“ Oh, Teddy ! how did you come to tell him that ? ” 

“ I made a special mission of it on account of the way 
he had been talking.” 

“And yet you won’t tell me what he said.” 

“Oh, he really didn’t say very much, confound him!— 
nothing that you would think worth noticing.” 

“ Then why should you wish to beat him ? ” 

“ That’s my look out. What does he mean by telling 
people that your poor dad— your poor father, I mean- 
found it very convenient to die just now, but that it was 
most unbusiness-like on his part ? ” 

“ He said that ? ” 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


65 


“ Every word of it — that no man with the least sense of 
what was due to his partner in business would have taken 
such a way of ending a crisis— it seems that there is an- 
other crisis coming in business circles at Baymouth: it 
appears to me that a crisis is the normal condition of busi- 
ness at that kennel of a town.” 

“ Mr. Thompson was hired by my poor father as office 
hoy twenty years ago.” 

“ Of course. Everyone knows that he polished up the 
handle of the big front door.” 

“ He owes everything to my father ; and this is his grati- 
tude ! ” 

“ Gratitude ? That’s just what I said to him. last even- 
ing. Oh, yes, I went to him in the cool of the evening. I 
had taken a brandy and soda to pull me togethei% and to 
help me to pull him to pieces. ‘ I don’t look for common 
decency from such a chap as you,’ said I, ‘ but a trace of 
gratitude might at least be expected. Mr. Liscomb pulled 
you out of the gutter by the scruff of your neck, and yet 
now you turn on him when he’s dead and can’t answer 
your foul insinuations.’ That was a settler for him. I 
thought he would have had the spirit to shy an ink bottle 
at my head ; there are always plenty of ink bottles of vari- 
ous calibres in an office, and a ruler or two that would 
do well enough for the light and fancy work of a fight, 
the incidental music of the realistic drama of a commercial 
department, so to speak; but that fellow Thompson, I’m 
sorry to say, tried neither ink bottles nor rulers. He only 
lay back in his chair and laughed in my face — said some- 
thing about congratulating people on so zealous a cham- 
pion — some dust-binnage rot like that; but I didn’t go 
away before I had said all that I had to say, and that was 
that he’d best look out.” 

“You shouldn’t have gone to him at all, Teddy.” 

Philippa spoke in a sad rather than an aggrieved tone. 
She shook her head. 

“What! you’d allow him to talk in that way through 
the length and breadth of Baymouth without any attempt 
being made to silence him ? ’’ said Teddy. 


00 


ONE FxVIR DAUGHTER. 


“ He cannot injure me now,” said Philippa. “ ‘ Beyond 
these voices there is peace.’ ” 

He wondered how it was that he had not thought of 
that line before. Perhaps it was because he had never 
heard it before. 

“That’s all right,” said he. “Women are that sort, I 
know; and you — you are ahead of all women in beauty — 
yes, beauty and soul, Phil. I’ll take precious good care 
that that cur Thompson doesn’t even show his teeth in a 
snarl tow’ards you.” 

“I can bear even that,” said she. “ I don’t think that 
I’ll remain any longer than I can help in Baymouth.” 

“What — what?” He had jumped up from the chair 
where he had seated himself a minute before. “What! 
But where can you go ? Oh, Phil, you cannot leave us.” 

“ The world is all before me,” said Phil, with a wan 
smile. “ I feel that I could live anywhere except in Bay- 
mouth now.” 

“ You do not know the w^orld,” he said shrewdly, after 
a thoughtful pause. “ You do not know the w^orld, my 
poor Phil.” His tone was now that of a man whom a 
lengthened and intimate contact wnth the w^orld has made, 
not cynical, but sadly indulgent of wickedness, since, alas I 
wickedness is inevitable. “ The world is — well, I can’t tell 
you all that it is. It’s no place for you, Phil.” 

“ The world is worldly — I know that,” said she. 

“ Oh, it’s far worse than that,” he cried. “ It’s not the 
place for respectable people at all. If you’d seen as much 
of it as I have, you wouldn’t talk of it. Listen to me, my 
dear Phil. We’ve always been good friends, you and I, 
and I’ve never changed towards you from the day long 
ago when I told you — what I did tell you. I came down 
here to-day, having made up my mind not to be mean 
enough to try to take advantage of your loneliness by tell- 
ing you what you know already; and that is, that I still 
love you with all my soul, Phil— with all my heart and 
soul, dear — no, I didn’t mean to say a word of this to you, 
and I won’t say a word of it; only when you talk of going 
away— of facing the world alone, I feel — why do you 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 67 

shake your head like that ? Don’t you believe all that I 
say ? ” 

She shook her head again before she spoke. 

“ Dear old Teddy,” she said in so sisterly a way that he 
groaned and walked away to the window, “ I believe you 
to be the best and truest fellow in the world. If I wished 
for a brother it would be for one exactly your counterpart. 
But I told you what I think of love — the love of a man 
and a woman; it is something quite difiPerent from this 
affection.” 

“ Quite — just the opposite. But I don’t love you as a 
sister.” 

I am so lonely just now that if I did not feel it neces- 
sary to be strong — very strong, I would solve all the diffi- 
culties of my future by putting my hand in yours, 
Teddy.” 

“ Oh, do it, do it, Phil. Don’t try to resist the tempta- 
tion.” 

She smiled — sadly, w^earily. The touch of impudence 
made him seem more of a boy than ever. 

‘‘What would your mother say, Teddy ?” she asked; 
and he hung his head at the inquiiy. 

“ She — she — well, she never understood you, Phil — the 
Baymouth people have never yet understood you. My 
poor mother is full of prejudices; but I know hov/ good 
she is, and I know that if we were married she would 
love you as a daughter. Yes, she would do anything for 
me.” 

Again Philippa shook her head. 

“ I like you too well, Teddy, to 'do anything that would 
jeopardise your prospects ; I can hear the Baymouth peo- 
ple talking about you and me, if I were to let you cast in 
your lot with mine.” 

“Let them talk. What do we care about them ? Let 
us go oui into the world together, Phil. Personally I have 
no objection to the world, bad as it is ; it was only the 
notion of your going to face it alone that made me wild. 
Give me a trial, dear.” 

“ I will not lose sight of you, Teddy,” she said after a 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


6S 


little pause, a pause that she employed in seeking* for a 
phrase that should exactly express her meaning. 

The phrase that she found was, she felt, the right one. 
It expressed what was in her mind to a shade. She did 
not ^mean to lose sight of this fresh eager boy, who had 
been loving her in the midst of an unlovable people since 
his school days. She Avas fonder of him than of anyone 
in the world ; but she could not bring herself to feel that 
the world had nothing better in store for her than a life to 
he spent with Teddy Haven in the town of Baymouth. 

Still she knew that she might regret losing sight of 
him. 

But the advantages of her plan did not seem so obvious 
to Teddy. At any rate, he did not accept her offer with 
enthusiasm. When a young man comes overffowing with 
love to a young woman, asking her love in return, he is 
scarcely likely to be satisfied with so indifferent a conipro 
mise as Philippa Liscomb offered to Teddy Haven. 

“I’ll take care that you don’t lose sight of me,” said he, 
after a pause. “ But I don’t know that that will do either 
of us much good.” 

“ That is because there are some things still in this 
world that you knoAV nothing about,” said she, wdth a smile 
that had nothing of sadness in it. 

He looked puzzled. 

“ How?” 

“ How ? Oh, Teddy, must I explain it to you ? Can’t 
you see that my going away is giving you the best chance 
you could have ?” 

“ The best chance ? ” 

“ When two people have been fond of one another with 
the fondness of brother and sister, having been together 
since they were children, the only way that this feeling 
can ever change to — to — something different, is by sepa- 
rating them for a time. Teddy, it is your only chance, 
and if you are in earnest you will welcome it.” 

The expression upon his features was one of amaze- 
ment. 

He recognised the accuracy of her words; but where 


THE xAIAIDEN PLANS. 69 

had she gained that knowledge which was hidden from 
him ? 

He was too surprised to be able to respond immediate- 
ly ; and before he had recovered himself, Philippa Tiad 
negotiated with the maid-servant for the entrance of an- 
other visitor. 

“ It is Mr. Bentham,” Philippa remarked casually to 
Teddy as soon as the maid had departed. 

“ Bentham ? — who is Mr. Bentham ? ’’ said Teddy, 
“ There’s no Bentham that I know at Baymouth.” 

“ But there’s a world outside Baymouth,’’ said she, with 
a little laugh. “ This Mr. Bentham belongs to the world 
in which Baymouth has no part.” 

This explanation was not reassuring to the Baymouth 
young man. 


CHAPTER XII. 

ILLUSTRATES THE EASE WITH WHICH THE PROCESS OF 
BEATIFICATION CAN BE ACCOMPLISHED. 

Teddy gave a good deal of attention to the entrance of 
the man who had taken it upon him to visit Philippa be- 
lieving her to be alone — he was quick enough to assume 
that the stranger had an impression that she was alone. 
The result of his observation w^as to make him assured 
that the world to which Alfred Bentham belonged was a 
pretty extensive region, even though Baymouth was be- 
yond its frontier. Teddy had travelled sufficiently far 
from Baymouth to know when he came in contact with a 
man of varied experiences; and it did not take him long 
to arrive at the conclusion that Miss Liscomb’s visitor was 
a man of experience, and of experiences wffiich is not ex- 
actly the same thing. The self-possessed way in wdiich he 
took Miss Liscomb’s hand, the low tone of his voice sug- 
gesting sympathy, and, above all, the deep interest which 
he manifested in Philippa’s i-eply to his inquiries after her 
health, convinced Teddy that this Mr. Bentham, whoever 


70 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


he might be, was a man experienced in the ways of men. 
His observation gave him a needle-stab of jealousy. 

Then the casual inquiries and replies came to an end; 
and the stranger gave a courteous glance in the direction 
of Teddy, saying, after a pause of a second : 

“ A brother ? ” 

“ Almost,” replied Philippa, without even the pause of 
another second. “ Almost a brother. Teddy Haven and 
I have been together since we were children. Teddy is 
my natural protector. Is not that so, Teddy ? ” 

Teddy muttered something, wearing a very constrained 
smile in response to her very natural smile. 

“ Oh, I suppose I should present you to one another,” 
cried Philippa, as if she had just at that- moment become 
conscious of her omission. “ Mr. Bentham, Mr. Haven. 
Pray pardon me.” 

The two men shook hands, and at once Alfred Ben- 
tham turned to Philippa. 

“Can I be of service to you in any w’ay. Miss Lis- 
comb?” he inquired. ‘‘I hope you will give me an 
opportunity of being of help to you. I feel that I am talk- 
ing to the daughter of an old friend of my father’s. I 
would look on it as a great privilege to be able to be of the 
smallest service to you.” 

“ You have already been of service to me,” she said, 
looking straight into his face. “ When I glanced out of 
that window, in the saddest hour of my life and saw that 

you ” she broke off suddenly and turned away, her 

fingers intertwining nervously. 

He watched her with sympathetic eyes, and Teddy 
watched him. It was not an expression of sympathy that 
was in Teddy’s eyes. 

There was a very long silence in the room ; and Teddy 
learned for the first time the extreme value of silence as 
an interpreter of emotion. 

Of course Philippa was the first to speak. 

“ I trust that we shall meet again,” she said, address- 
ing Alfred Bentham. Teddy moved uneasily : he did not 
see that there was any actual need for her to promise not 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


n 


to lose sight of this man, whatever she might do in regard 
to himself, and he perceived that she was at the point of 
making such a promise. It so happened, however, that 
it was Alfred Bentham who referred to this matter. 

“ I trust so,” he said, so soon as she had spoken. “ I 
hope that we shall meet again. I should not like to lose 
sight of you. Miss Liscomb. My father ” 

Teddy groaned inwardly as the man endeavoured — 
and apparently not unsuccessfully either — to persuade 
Philippa that there was a certain bond between them. 
It was a far from plausible theory in the estimation of 
Teddy that, because this man’s father had known Philip- 
pa’s father, it would never do for him to lose sight of Phi- 
lippa. If this sort of claim w^as to be accounted valid, 
Philippa’s future would be one of embarrassing friend- 
ships. He hoped that she would look at the matter in 
this light, and he was, consequently, disappointed to hear 
her express the wush that she and the man whose father 
had been acquainted with her fatliei’, would frequently 
meet. 

His surprise overcame his disappointment, however, 
when he heard her add : 

“ I mean to go to live in London in the course of an- 
other month or so — in fact, so soon as I see my poor 
father’s business matters in the way to being settled. I 
wonder if you know Mrs. Bennett Wyse ?” 

Mr. Bentham gave a laugh. 

“Who does not know Mrs, Bennett Wyse ?” said he; 
“certainly no one who has ever given promise of doing 
anything particular in this world,” 

. “ I fancy that I shall be with her a good deal,” said 
Philippa. ‘'She is an old friend of mine. Have you 
given promise of doing anything particular, Mr. Ben- 
tham ?” 

“ Alas ! ” said he, “ only promise — only promise with- 
out realisation. I meant to become a great painter, but I 
have never painted a good picture yet. Let us change the 
subject, if you please. It is a painful one for me to pur^ 
sue.” 


72 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Philippa’s memory went back to all the galleries she 
had ever visited, but it failed to bring back to her any 
striking picture by one Bentham. 

He ]3t^i*ceived the operation of her memory, and it 
flashed across her that he perceived it. 

“ I cannot recollect ever having seen a picture of yours, 
Mr. Bentham,” she said with a frankness that was very 
effective. “ But that may be,” she added, because I have 
paid more attention to the pictures than to the names of 
their painters. Tell me the names of some of your works, 
and I will engage myself to say where they were ex- 
hibited.” 

“ I dare not,” said he; ‘‘ the best of them were not good 
enough, and the worst of them were not bad enough, to 
attract attention.” 

“ Name one,” he cried. 

“ ‘ A Morsel for a Monarch.’ ” 

“And you said you had never painted a good pic- 
ture ? ” there was actual reproach in her voice. 

“ I do not call ‘ A Morsel for a Monarch ’ a good pic- 
ture,” said he. 

“ Not in the Sunday-school sense,” said she. “ It contains 
no lesson, and its moral, I’m afraid, is not well defined — I 
don’t say that it is on the wrong side; but ‘A Morsel for 
a Monarch ’ is a picture that any one might be proud of 
painting.” 

“And yet you had forgotten the name of the painter ?” 

“ His name was absorbed in the charm of his work. 
Are you not satisfied, Mr. Bentham ? ” 

“ More than satisfied; only about that moral. Was it 
on the wrong side ? ” 

“ Who can tell ? What is morality ? ” 

“Morality is the salable element in literature and 
art.” 

“ A capital definition. Did you sell your picture ? ” 

“ The day it was hung.” 

“ Therefore the morality was on the right side ? I am 
answered, Mr. Bentham ; only I’ll go to some one else in 
future, if I want morality defined.” 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


73 


“ Let me suggest Mrs. Bennett Wyse. I hear she is 
organising a new cwZ^e— the Introspectors its votaries call 
themselves.” 

“ The Introspectors ? ” 

“ Yes. Young women in these days, it would appear, 
have abandoned circumspection in favour of introspec- 
tion, and introspection is another name for self-deception.” 

“ You mean to warn me ? ” 

“ I mean to say good-bye until we meet beneath the 
roof of Mrs. Bennett Wyse.” 

He rose, and she gave him her hand. 

‘‘ It has done me good to meet you here,” she said in a 
tone that suggested that she was conscious that her recent 
approach to levity had been superficial — that it had meant 
merely a break, as it were, in the cloud hanging over her. 
“ It was so good of you to come to me.” 

“ I only wish it were in my power to do something for 
you,” he said gently, retaining her hand for the second or 
two as he was speaking the words, and keeping his eyes 
upon her face. Then he turned to where Teddy was 
standing a mute, but by no means a disinterested, specta- 
tor of a scene that struck him as being artificial though 
not meaningless. His response to Mr. Bentham’s adieu 
was a trifle clumsy. Mr. Bentham’s leave-taking was 
graceful and easy. 

So unreasonable was Teddy Haven that he actually felt 
that Mr. Bentham, by going away and leaving him alone 
with Philippa, had slighted him ; it was as much as to sug- 
gest that there was nothing about him, Teddy, to make any 
one jealous. He knew perfectly well that if he had come 
into the room and had found Philippa talking confiden- 
tially to another man, he would not have left before that 
other man; but Alfred Bentham had departed quite 
genially. 

Who is he any way ? ” he asked of Philippa before 
Alfred Bentham could have reached the porch of the inn. 

“ He is a man whom I like,” said Philippa. “ He was 
very kind to me when I needed some one to speak a word 
of kindness in my hearing.” 


74 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ If you had only told me that you were here I would 
have come down to you at once,” said he. 

“ I am sure of that, Teddy,” said she. 

“ But you told him I was almost a brother of yours.” 

“ And so you are, dear Teddy. That is why I am going 
to send you home now. I cannot let you stay with me 
any longer.” 

“ I want to take you back with me to Bay mouth. You 
are alone here. You are not fitted for a fight with the 
world, Phil.” 

“ I know it — I know it, Teddy dear; and that is why I 
don’t mean to fight with the world. I mean to have the 
world on my side when there’s any fighting going on. 
Now, good-bye, dear Teddy. Oh no, I’ll not lose sight of 
you.” 

But it took her several minutes persuading him to go 
away ; and when he did go, it was with bitterness in his 
heart. He had said some bitter words to her too — full of 
reproaches at the lightness with which she flung away old 
friendships, and accepted the grave responsibilities of new. 
Woman was, he assured her, a curious creature — not act- 
ually unlovable, but certainly not giving herself a chance 
of being loved as heaven and Teddy designed that she 
should be loved. Yes; he went so far as to assert that if 
it were not for the fact that she had been born lovable, 
woman would have a poor chance in the struggle for ex- 
istence. Thereupon Philippa laughed outright for a mo- 
ment; but recollecting that she wore a black dress, she cast 
a look of reproach at Teddy, and in an instant he was be- 
side her, calling himself abrute— an idiot -everything that 
was contemptible — for having made her laugh outright. 
Could she ever be brought to forgive him ? She gave him 
her hand, and he covered it with kisses. He put his arm 
about her waist and drew her towards him ; but she shook 
her head. She would not allow him to kiss her again, even 
as a brother; and so he went away very discontented. 

He was the more discontented when he recollected some 
time after that he had omitted to ask her what she meant 
by saying it was her intention to go to London. Did she 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 75 

mean to leave Baymouth for ever, or did she intend merely 
paying a visit to London ? 

He had been a fool, he felt, to spend so much time mak- 
ing her acquainted with his opinion — no, it was not his 
opinion — of woman from the standpoint of the disinterest- 
ed observer of life, when he should have been hearing from 
her what she meant to do in the immediate future. 

He felt that he would not be justified in laying any 
plans for his own future without first becoming acquainted 
with her intentions in regard to visiting London. 

The last look that he had had of her showed her to him 
standing against the framework of the window, as a maiden 
saint stands out white and lovely from the centre of the 
cathedral panes of crimson and azure. A shaft of sunset 
had come through the window and gleamed upon her won- 
derful hair, making it flame around her white face. 

And he had been brute enough to make her laugh ! 


CHAPTER XHI. 

DEALS EXCLUSIVELY WITH THE REFLECTIONS OF A YOUNG 
WOMAN WITH PLANS. 

She was hack again at Baymouth, the place she detested 
beyond all the places where she had yet been. She reflected 
that she had been shown more kindness during the week 
she had been at Steeplecross than she had received during 
all the years— dreary years— that she had lived at Bay- 
mouth. Why, even the doctor, who had proved a useful, 
if an unconscious, ally in the carrying out of her daring- 
scheme, had refused to take a penny of her money — and 
that was wfliat no doctor at Baymouth would have done. 
Nay, more, Mrs. Carsewell had visited her at the inn, and 
had given her an invitation to stay for a month at her 
house. 

As Philippa expressed her appreciation of the lady’s 
kindness, she could not help wondering if the doctor had 
6 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


76 

mentioned to his wife that incident of the kiss implanted 
on her cheek. She was rather of the belief that it had not 
been mentioned. 

In any case, however, Mrs. Carsewell had g-one out of 
her way to be kind, as no woman in Baymouth had ever 
been; and, dwelling upon this circumstance, Philippa 
looked forward with eagerness to the prospect of saying 
farewell to Baymouth ; and she had come to regard her 
father’s indiscretion in the light of a blessing, since it freed 
her from the necessity of living in the town she detested. 

She felt exultant in the reflection that that indiscretion 
had made her free in every way. Her mother had died 
some years before, and her father had been a Methodist — 
perhaps he was one still, unless the ship in which he had 
set out on his voyage had foundered ; in such a case it was 
improbable that he was still a Methodist. At any rate she 
felt that she was now free from the restraints of Meth- 
odism. 

She was emancipated. 

There was no one in the world to whom she owed obe- 
dience or allegiance ; and that was the situation in which 
she had for some years longed to And herself. She could 
live her life without being compelled to answer any one 
who might be disposed to question her regarding some of 
its details. She meant to live her life — a fine, unshackled 
life, free from the miserable petty prejudices of society 
which is to be found at Baymouth or a like community, 
where the bondage of girlhood is only exchanged for the 
bondage of wifehood — where no loveliness is associated 
with the life of a woman, however lovely she herself may 
be — where religion is joyless, and husbands intolerant and 
consequently intolerable — where money is a joyless deity, 
worshipped with dull solemnity, devoid of the grace, the 
charm, the glory of art — where all the interests of a 
woman’s life are petty : soup, fish, joint, pudding, a house- 
hold book, and a washing book — where bills are paid 
quarterly, and the fashions in dress are dependent upon 
the nature of the surplus autumn stocks in the London 
shops — where a graceful toilette is looked upon with suspi- 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


77 

cion and occasionally derision — where there are no women 
whose envy is worth striving for in the matter of toilettes, 
and where there are no newspapers to record a happy in- 
spiration in piquant gowns or picture hats. 

She knew Baymouth well; and the measure of her 
hatred of the place and the people was as the measure of 
her knowledge of both. 

And now she was emancipated. 

What did that mean ? 

It meant that there was no one in the world to whom 
she was answerable for anything she might do — that she 
was at liberty to break through every conventional bar- 
rier without being liable to any penalty. Emancipation 
meant this, and more, according to her interpretation of 
the word. It meant the chance of making her name 
known in the world, and this she felt to be a worthy am- 
bition. 

She had made several attempts during the previous 
years to become known in the world. She had written a 
novel or two on the most approved models, and a play or 
two with a very naught}^ heroine in each. The novels 
had been refused by the publishers and returned to her by 
parcel post, and the plays had been refused by the mana- 
gers but not returned to her. She had tried to startle the 
world by openly taking the part of a Christian Anarchist 
— a personage who, after being turned out of every Conti- 
nental state, had naturally looked for a hospitable welcome 
in England. 

She had not startled the world, however: she had only 
startled Baymouth ; and society in Baymouth, unlike 
society in London, did not take delight in honouring the 
people who startled it. Then she began to wonder if 
something could not be done for Irish Nationalism, or 
the Scotch Crofters, or the Siberian Exiles. But so soon 
as she made a move in any of these enterprises, she felt 
the heavy hand of Baymouth upon her, and the dead 
weight of her father’s Methodism round her neck. The 
only distinction she had ever attained at Baymouth took 
the form of a sermon which a Presbyterian divine had 


Y8 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


preached against her, immediately after her advocacy of 
the Christian Anarchist — for there could be no doubt that 
the portrait which the preaclier drew of the Vain Woman 
of the Proverbs of Solomon was a portrait of Philippa Lis- 
comb. It was not a delicately finished vignette that a man 
of taste would appreciate, but a coarse oleograph that ap- 
pealed to the vulgar fancy. Still its resemblance to the 
original was said to be undoubted; and it gave to Philip- 
pa for one week a prominence that had never within the 
memory of man been attained by a woman belonging to 
the best society in Baymouth. 

Her father’s Methodism asserted itself at this point, 
however: he said he feared that she would ruin his busi- 
ness; consequently, she never had another chance of sit- 
ting for even a pastel to a minister of the Gospel at Bay- 
mouth. 

Circumstances and her environment had been decidedly 
antagonistic to the career — the many careers — that she had 
planned out for herself. 

She had witnessed the emancipation of some women 
who really possessed no claims whatev^er to the attention of 
the world — of course, in such cases as she had before her, 
the respect of the world was not Avhat was aimed at, only 
the attention of the world. Emancipation, if used dis- 
creetly, should, she knew, command attention, respect was 
something to treat with indifference; respect is the nor- 
mal tribute to a plain face and the mantle of the year be- 
fore last. The women whom she had in her memory had 
become noted upon the slenderest of claims. One, after 
failing to achieve reputation on the stage by interpreting 
the motives of other women, had achieved — well, not ex- 
actly reputation, but certainly note, by giving way to her 
own emotions. Her Divorce Court toilette was reproduced 
not merely in the Peccadillo Gazette^ but in every illus- 
trated paper in the kingdom. Another woman whose 
case Philippa had before her, had after vainly attemijting 
to get her portrait published in some weekl^^ paper on the 
strength of walking through the streets of London with a 
monkey on her muff, gone to France and challenged the 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


T9 


Government to expel her from French territory. As she 
had done nothing to merit the distinction of expulsion, 
her challenge passed unnoticed in France ; but the text of 
her challenge was transmitted to all the English papers 
by a news agency — it was called a manifesto — and her 
name appeared in quite a number of leading articles. A 
third had not merely invented a horrible nondescript gar- 
ment to take the place of a skirt, but had actually lectured, 
wearing the thing, and had been satirised in Punch. A 
fourth had written a book showing that all men were 
scoundrels, because she had come across one who was a 
scoundrel. The book had brought her fame and money: 
it was even said that the publishers had made something 
out of its production : they deserved to do so, for they had 
put it into grammar. 

All these cases of emancipation Philippa recalled while 
still in the train returning to Baymouth, and she felt that 
if such women as these — women who possessed no beauty 
— who did not even possess genius, which was of lesser ac- 
count — women who did not know how to dress themselves 
— had succeeded in attracting to themselves such attention 
as caused their names to be known to every newspaper 
reader in Great Britain, what might not she accomplish if 
she had the chance ? 

And now her chance had come. She had longed for 
it to come; and her j^erception of the possibility of its ap- 
proach being accelerated by the fact of her father’s having 
made a fool of himself, helped to stifle whatever natural 
regret she may have felt at the folly of her father. If she 
liad not appreciated this possibility it is unlikely that she 
would have set her invention at work to devise a scheme 
for the escape of her father — a scheme that would remove 
the mud of Methodism that threatened to cake upon her 
feet, which she meant to be as the feet of Hermes. There 
was no Methodism about Hermes nor yet about Phaeton, 
another swift person. She had a great admiration for 
Phaeton. Had he not set the world on fire? Was 
not that an achievement worthy of an emancipated 
one ? 


80 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


She would see if it might not be possible for her to 
emulate the feat of Phaeton, now that her father was 
dead. He was practically dead; for she was certain that 
he would feel that it was due to his Methodism never to 
return to Baymouth. The doctrine of the Sadducees, she 
knew, found favour with the Methodist Connection at 
Baymouth in the case of such members as had been in- 
discreet in business — indiscreet enough to be found out — 
though, as a rule, she knew that the Connection lived in 
closer association with the views of another Hebrew sect 
opposed to the Sadducees. 

Yes, her father was to all intents and purposes dead, 
and she was free. She had worked out her own freedom 
and her father’s salvation at the same time, and as she 
looked out of the carriage window and saw the straggling 
mill chimneys of Baymouth standing about the landscape, 
she wondered how it was that no one had ever likened 
them to the mosque towers from which the Muezzin’s cry 
to prayer goes forth; the mill chimneys were assuredly 
the visible signs of the worship of the people of Bay- 
mouth. She laughed with the sense of freedom, she 
laughed in the joy of thinking that by her own clever- 
ness she had emancipated herself from the smell of the 
mill smoke, from the small life, from the apathy of that 
cold oblivion to which she had been doomed in Baymouth. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ACQUAINTS A READER WITH SOME VIEWS REGARDING 
LOVE. 

Women, like nations, seldom know what use to make 
of their freedom when they have by patience, long-suffer- 
ing, and perhaps a trick or two, acquired it. Of this fact 
Philippa was well aware, and she was thus all the more 
resolved that her case should he an exceptional one. She 
would be the one woman who, having freed herself^ would 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


81 


show the world what a good thing was the freedom of 
woman. 

She meant to achieve fame by making the world aware 
of this great truth. To be sure, she meant to accomplish 
very much more than this : but this would do very well to 
keep before her as a permanent object in life. 

But what she had directly before her as she arrived at 
this conclusion on the night of her return was a large 
mirror; and it reflected between its blazing candles the 
half-undressed figure of a girl whose shapely head was 
surrounded by a cloud of hair, that seemed not merely to 
be permeated with the light of the candles, but to make a 
subtle light of its own. As she gave a sudden turn, her 
hair trailed away at one side, suggesting in the play of the 
lights, the brilliant copper fringe of a thunder-cloud crawl- 
ing round the curves of a hill. With another movement 
and the uplifting of two shining arms and hands passed 
idly through the masses of her hair, her face seemed look- 
ing out from a bower made of the woven branches of the 
copper beech. 

The careless bareness of some of her limbs pleased her, 
but not greatly. As a matter of fact, she placed too low a 
value upon her beauty— most beautiful women do; they 
think that they are born for spiritual triumphs, and Phi- 
lippa believed that she was born for intellectual triumphs. 

(Thus it is that women do themselves wrong.) 

Only she could not help wondering if any of the women 
who had become famous during the past few years pos- 
sessed so shapely a body as hers— possessed hair that one 
moment suggested the lurid sulphurous fiame-fringe of the 
Bottomless Pit, and the next the heavenly gold of the Vir- 
gin’s aureole. 

She could not remember having heard that any of 
these women had been so gifted by heaven. (She assumed 
that hair like hers was a gift of heaven, which was going 
just a little too far.) Even the lady who had worn what 
was quite the Divorce Court toilette of the season had been, 
she knew, not absolutely figureless, but devoid of the least 
distinction as to her face, and yet that face had been re- 


82 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


produced by the best London weekly papers, where it sug- 
gested more black than white; and by the worst provin- 
cial journals, where it suggested a variety of things, from 
an abnormal vegetable to a map of the campaign in South 
Africa. 

Thus it was that Philippa was led to make some sort of 
a rough estimate as to the value of all that she saw before 
her in her mirror, as factors in the great problem of her 
future. She underestimated their importance; knowing 
very little about men. 

She had never loved a man. Upon this fact she pon- 
dered, throwing herself upon the sofa opposite the mirror 
in an attitude of exquisite grace. Had any man witnessed 
that attitude, she would, by observing him, have learned 
in the twinkling of an eye more of what man is than she 
could have learned by twenty years’ careful observation of 
the men whom she met in her walk through the world. 
But no man saw her, and she remained in ignorance of 
man until her hour came for that knowledge. 

Her pondering upon the curious fact that she had never 
loved took the form of a rapid review of all the men who 
had asked her to love them. They were pretty numerous ; 
for she had never lacked popularity with the men of Bay- 
mouth society, though the women detested her about as 
much as she detested them, falling short of her in this way 
only because they were deficient in her capacity to hate. 
Half a dozen men had asked her to marry them — men who 
had got wealth by buying cheap and selling dear; but she 
had loved none of them. She meant love to play a very 
important part in her scheme of life, for she had an idea 
that it was better than anything else in the world. She 
believed it to be so much better than anything else she had 
long ago made up her mind that she would not run the 
risk of loving any man who w’ould be unable to give her 
love the best chance of a long and prosperous life. 

She had seen much love perish through want of nour- 
ishment — perish because in the absence of money, the 
squalor of house drudgery sent love flying afar, pretty 
much as the pangs of a fully organised house-cleaning send 



Throwing herself on the sofa opposite the mirror. P. 82. 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


83 


the husbands to walk upon the streets until it is all over. 
So she resolved only to love a man who could provide her 
love with such an entourage as would give it the best 
chance of surviving all the risks of life. This was assur- 
edly wise on her x^art, believing as she did that love was 
the best thing in the world, and, consequently, the thing 
that was best worth preserving in all its youthful vigour 
and beauty. She had acted reasonably, and in accordance 
with her knowledge of love. 

Love was long ago a vague thing in the estimation of 
young women; but Philippa Liscomb knew perfectly 
well that it was a living thing the duration of whose life 
was as susceptible of calculation by a painstaking assur- 
ance office actuary as the life of a grocer or a draper. 
She knew that, given the conditions of its existence, an 
assurance office actuary could without difficulty make out 
a policy upon its life, and assign to it an equitable pre- 
mium, payable, with or without the usual triennial 
bonus accumulations, either in case of death or decrepi- 
tude. 

Thus it is that love is no longer a vague thing. 

Long ago love was said to be blind. So it seemed to 
be ; but the science of the oculist has made such progress 
of late that love is no longer blind. It has been operated 
on with complete success. It was only suffering from 
cataract after all. 

But she knew perfectly well that wealth was of itself 
no guarantee of the endurance of love. Water and a 
crust constitute a very low diet indeed for love; but still 
it might pull through under such a regimen, though the 
chances were against it. It was frequently killed other- 
wise than by starvation. Many waters cannot quench 
love, but a dash of alcohol can; and Philippa was unable 
to fancy her love for any man surviving her \dew of that 
man when he was in a condition of alcoholism. Now the 
business men of Baymouth had never been very careful 
of their reputation as regards this particular vice: they 
were Imown all over the world to have little dread of in- 
toxicants; and the women of Baymouth were easily toler- 


84 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


ant of the excesses of their husbands, their fathers, or 
their brothers. 

But Philippa was not tolerant, and so she had turned 
away from some of her suitors in disgust: she would not 
jeopardise the future of the love which it was her aim to 
cherish, by listening to the offers of men whom, numbers 
of other girls would not merely have tolerated but wel- 
comed. 

She had indeed, out of her belief in the beauty and the 
solace of love, set her mind upon the achievement of 
many matters for the securing of a brilliant and length- 
ened future for her love. It w^as her mind that she had 
set upon these matters; her heart she had not permitted to 
make any suggestion to her on the question which, in its 
preliminary stage, she knew to be entirely a mental one. 
The question ‘‘ Whom should I love ? ” was of course a 
mental one; and it was certainly the first question w^hich 
a young woman looking forw^ard to a long and close 
companionship with love should ask herself. When this 
question has been satisfactorily answered by the logically- 
trained mind of the educated young w^oman of to-day, she 
may then, with every chance of happiness, allow her 
heart to do the rest of the business. 

The only man in Baymouth whom she cared about 
was Teddy Haven. Still lying in that ravishing dishevel- 
ment upon her sofa facing the large mirror, she thought 
upon Teddy, who. two days before, had visited her at 
Steeplecross, and had told her how he had been indiscreet 
enough to threaten Mr. Thompson in his owm office. She 
laughed, with some measure of tenderness, as she thought 
upon that fair-haired boy, facing the man of business who 
had made certain remarks that Teddy had construed into 
a disparagement of her father. 

It was very indiscreet of him ; but it was very brave, 
she thought. The opportunities afforded a chivalrous 
young man of breaking the head of a man who has in- 
sulted a woman or her relations are so very infrequent, 
that such a youth as Teddy should be pardoned, she 
thought, for endeavouring to make the most of his chance. 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


85 


She supposed that it would have gratified Teddy to break 
the head of Mr. Thompson either by the illegitimate use 
of an ink-bottle or by a well-aimed ebony ruler, even 
though she had given Teddy to understand more than 
once that she was not likely to respond to his passionate 
prayer of love. 

Poor Teddy ! she had a tender feeling for him, and 
she would certainly not lose sight of him. He was not 
likely ever to distinguish himself in the world, and she 
felt that it would be necessary for her to marry a distin- 
guished man if she meant her love to last in a healthy 
condition; but still she liked him far better than any Mian 
in Baymouth, and she liked greatly his fervent liking of 
her. If it was not love it was something closely akin to 
love: so she made up her mind not to lose sight of him. 

Then she went on to think of Alfred Bentham. He 
was a man who had distinguished himself in some meas- 
ure, and who was likely to distinguish himself still fur- 
ther. She did not laugh as she thought about him. She 
shifted uneasily upon her sofa, and, after a brief space, she 
rose quickly and impatiently, and, without pausing to ad- 
mire the etfect of the flickering candle-light upon the 
splendid coils of her hair that twisted about her shoulders 
and her bare neck and bosom, extinguished the lights and 
hurried into her bed. But even after lying awake for an 
hour thinking about Alfred Bentham and the document 
bearing his name which was in her dressing-bag, she had 
failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to the 
course she should adopt in order to make him acquainted 
with the full sum of that knowledge which was hers 
alone, and which would have to be imparted to him 
sooner or later. 


86 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XV. 

QUOTES FROM THE P^AN OF THE PROPHETESS WITH THE 
TIMBREL. 

She knew that she had a trying day or two before her. 
She meant to have another interview with Mr. Thompson, 
and she believed that she might accomplish more by it 
that would be of lasting value to her, than Teddy could 
have done had Mr. Thompson given him a chance of car- 
rying out his threats of physical violence. Then she 
would have to face those of the Baymouth people who 
might pay her a visit; for although she knew that the 
Baymouth women detested her, she was equally well 
aware that they would not be likely to lose the oppor- 
tunity of visiting her. Condolences and confidences went 
together in tlie opinion of the Baymouth women; and 
they were anxious she knew, to be confided in — anxious 
for her to tell them all that should be told (and i^erhaps 
more) regarding her father’s death, and whether there 
was any truth in the things Mr. Thompson had been 
saying. 

They could not, of course, expect her to confide in them 
whatever she might know regarding her father’s business: 
they would merely exercise upon her their undoubted 
powers of penetration, and they would be greatly disap- 
pointed if she failed under judicious pressure to reveal to 
them all she knew regarding a matter which, being pain- 
ful, was, according to their views, a legitimate subject for 
investigation. 

She would face them all — that is what she felt as she 
partook of her lonely breakfast, previous to trying on 
some very simple dresses which she had written for while 
still at Steeplecross. She wished to do everything de- 
cently and in order: but it would, she reflected, be folly to 
get a stock of sombre garments at Baymouth when she 
meant to go to London. It would be folly to add to the 
poignancy of wearing sham mourning, the reflection that 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 87 

that mourning was the residue of last year’s autumn sales 
in London. 

Yes, she would face the worst that Baymouth matron- 
hood and spinsterhood could put upon her; and, so resolv- 
ing, she drank her coffee and went to face the lady who 
waited for her, with a set smile of sympathy and black 
velveteen. 

The lady was scarcely so sympathetic when Phili]Dpa 
had explained to her that she wished only for the smallest 
amount of black garments possible to satisfy the imme- 
diate requirements of the situation. The lady assured her 
that a father was invariably mourned through the medium 
of crape for a year, and for another year through the me- 
dium of black velvet ; occasionally, when it was regarded 
as becoming to the complexion, as it certainly would be to 
Miss Liscomb’s, black was worn during the greater part of 
the third year; therefore — the logic was the lady’s— Miss 
Liscomb could not possibly do w ith less than half a dozen 
frocks immediately and the remainder at intervals of three 
months. 

But Miss Liscomb was firm. She selected her two 
dresses and ordered the bill to be sent to her without de- 
lay. Then she spoke a few kind words to the three serv- 
ants who constituted the household, telling them that the 
sad occurrence — they would know what that meant — 
necessitated the giving up of the house at the end of the 
month. She was very sorry, and she hoped that they 
would all get good situations. 

The maids left her with their aprons at their ej^es, but 
the cook was made of sterner stuff. A lifetime spent in 
front of glowing fires had dried up the fountains of her 
sympathy, and her tears came as infrequently as those of 
the Black Douglas. Nothing short of the demolition of a 
jelly in turning out of its ‘‘ shape ” had ever been known 
to move her. 

Scarcely had this painful duty been discharged wdien 
the minister of the Methodist Chapel which she had hith- 
erto attended with her farther, called. It was still the 
forenoon, but clergymen can make calls at private houses 


88 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


when it suits their own convenience. Their Pax huic 
domui, et illis intrantibus ” is supposed to make them 
always welcome to the householder. 

Miss Liscomb did not shrink from facing even Mr. 
Davis, the preacher of the narrowest doctrines that ever 
came from a man. He was a native of Baymouth, and he 
seemed to be under the impression that this was sufficient 
warrant for his adoption of many a course that would 
have seemed absurd on the part of the most narrow- 
minded of his flock. 

He daily boasted of his toleration ; but his toleration 
simply meant the course which he would suggest for a 
man to pursue with the devil on one side and the deep sea 
on the other. 

“ Thank God, we have still got our hell ! ” cried Mr. 
Davis exultantly upon one occasion when some one who 
did not know him was mildly questioning the possibility 
of success attending the efforts that were being made to 
civilise the Midlands. 

He knew that to thousands of people a religion without 
a hell was as insipid as a salad without vinegar. 

He knew that what pepper — cayenne pepper — is to the 
grilled bone, so is the Pit to the religion of some people ; 
it gives a piquancy to an otherwise flavourless and unin- 
viting morsel. 

This was the man who greeted Philippa as she went 
out from the presence of the modiste and into the dining- 
room— Mr. Davis had told the maid to show him into the 
dining-room ; he said he felt more at home in that apart- 
ment than he did in the drawing-room, which was prob- 
ably a fact. 

‘‘ Girl, girl,” he said, “ this is the chastening: you have 
been chastened.” 

“ Pray seat yourself, Mr. Davis,” she said. Her natural 
voice contrasted with the artiflcial intonation of the man. 

“ Do you recognise the Hand that chastens, girl ?” he 
inquired, becoming more strident. 

“ What I do not recognise is your right to ask me such 
a question,” said she. “ If you have occasion to speak to 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


89 


me I must ask you to address me as other people address 
me without the need for any reminder.” 

There was a considerable pause before he said, 

“ Why did you not send for me when you knew that 
your father was dying ? ” 

“I did not know that he was dying,” she replied. 
“ But had I believed that my father was dying I should 
not have sent for you, Mr. Davis.” 

“ Are you aware that your father’s life was a fraud ? ” 
he cried with a vehemence that was brutal. Exultation 
was in his voice — the joy that is known on earth over one 
sinner that repenteth not. “ Are you aware that his life 
was a fraud ? ” 

“ I am aware that he was a Methodist,” said Philippa, 
rising and ringing the bell. 

She then went to the door of the room, opened it and 
walked out, without casting a glance towards him. A step 
beyond the door she met the maid. 

‘‘ Show Mr. Davis out,” she said, beginning to ascend 
the stairs. 

She had reached the first landing before the man had 
recovered from his astonishment — the astonishment of 
the school bully who is hit back and fioored by the little 
chap whom he has attacked. He heard a door closing up- 
stairs, and then he became conscious of his position. 
Even he perceived that it would be undignified to shout 
something stinging up to the girl; but he would have 
done so without hesitation, only that he had heard the 
door being closed overhead. 

He put on his hat with deliberation, and pressed it 
down upon his brows in the way that the maid had seen 
a comedian do in a melodrama which included among its 
characters a sham clergyman — the maid was a secret 
theatre-goer; and she drew her own conclusions from 
watching Mr. Davis’s performance. Then he went slowly 
down the steps, and she closed the hall door. 

Philippa had never felt more satisfied in all her life 
than she did as she looked out from the edge of the cur- 
tain in that upper room, and saw Mr. Davis walking away. 


90 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


His appearance suggested to her that of a man who has 
a secret sickness, which he fears will he noticed by the 
people around him. Mr. Davis seemed very ill indeed. 

She almost danced into the middle of the room, for now 
for the first time she had a sense of being free. She felt 
that all that poets in a past age and women — some women — 
in the present, have said about the joys of freedom was in- 
finitely below the reality. She thought of Jael— for she 
had been carefully instructed in Old Testament histoi^y — 
and she fully realised the raptures of Miriam. 

“ The horse and his rider — the horse and his rider ! ” 
she cried, feeling the glow of the emancipated one. This 
was what it was to be free — to have cast away the old 
shackles that had bound her and to have overthrown her 
ancient enemy. 

She had always despised that man, whose spiritual 
counsels her father had professed to make his rule of life. 
She had been forced by her father to listen Sundaj^ after 
Sunday to the preaching of that man — to the reiteration 
of narrow-minded doctrines from which her soul revolted. 
She had been compelled during all her life to do a certain 
amount of honour to that man when he sat at the table 
with her and her father, although she had never ceased to 
loathe him. 

Now she had overthrown him, having worked out her 
freedom ; and there was no one who had the right to call 
her to account for it. , 

She longed for a timbrel. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

RECORDS THE FOLLOWING UP OF A FIRST VICTORY, AND ALSO 
LADY haven’s VIEWS ON THE LEGITIMATE CAREER. 

Philippa felt not only equal to the contest which she 
believed to be impending with those of the Bay mouth 
matrons who might visit her, but actually anxious for it. 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


91 


They would not, of course, have the effrontery of Mr. 
Davis, so she could not treat them as she had treated him; 
but she felt that they might have to be made aware 
of the fact that she had worked out her freedom, other- 
wise they would offer to patronise her under the guise of 
condolence. They ha-d hitherto never made the attempt 
to patronise her: they had come to understand that she 
was not a promising subject for such a course of treat- 
ment; but now they would probably feel that their chance 
had come. 

She felt equal to the duty of proving to them that they 
had made a mistake — that it was her chance and not theirs 
that had come. 

Then she would have to deal with Mr. Thompson, but 
Mj\ Thompson would be easily dealt with should he at- 
tempt to evade the agreement he had made with her at 
Steeplecross. It was actually thinking of the ease with 
which Mr. Thompson would be overthrown that tran- 
quillised her. Her reliections upon the timbrel of Miriam 
and Deborah had given her a flush. She was soon, how- • 
ever, able to seat herself at a desk and write a letter to 
her friend Mrs. Bennett Wyse, asking that lady for leave 
to pay her the visit to which she had been entreated more 
than once, but which her father, acting on the advice of 
Mr. Davis, had interdicted. She said that she assumed Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse had heard of the sudden death of her 
father. She did not dwell upon her sense of The Blow, or 
The Trial, or The Hand; she understood Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse, and she knew that Mrs. Bennett Wyse understood 
her, and this knowledge was sufficient to prevent her from 
wasting any lines over a conventional lament in Biblical 
phrases. 

The desk at which she wrote this letter was her father’s; 
and having his keys, she thought that it might be as well, 
when her letter was sent to be posted, to go through his 
private papers and destroy such as were not desirable to 
be kept. The desk was one which contained many 
drawers, and she believed that the business of destroying 
the papers would occupy her for some hours. She had 
7 


92 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


now and again had glimpses into the drawers, and she had 
noticed that they had all been closely packed. 

So soon as she unlocked the first receptacle, how'ever, 
she was amazed to find that it was empty. She opened a 
second and a third. They were also empty. Had some one 
had access to the desk since the departure of her father, she 
wondered. Suddenly she recollected that two nights be- 
fore her father had come to her wdth the confession of the 
necessity that had arisen for him to take a hasty departure 
in some direction — he did not decide whither, it was left 
for her to do that — he had been working in this room 
until midnight, and when she had entered the room to say 
good-night to him, she had perceived a very strong smell 
of burning pape?’. He had accounted for it to her on the 
ground of his having lit a gas bracket with a piece of 
paper which he had allowed to smoulder. 

Her mind was relieved by this recollection, for she 
feared that Mr. Thompson might have been at the desk 
and have taken possession of papers which, perhaps, would 
be compromising to her father. Only one drawer con- 
tained some diaries which her father seemed to have either 
overlooked or found inconvenient to destroy at a moment’s 
notice. 

The books were strongly bound and had clasps. She 
opened one and read a page or two. The diaries were, she 
found, simple records of the; spiritual experiences of her 
father from day to day. She had seen in some newspapers 
what was called a meteorological register— a small chart 
showing by curved lines the readings of the barometer and 
the wet and dry bulb thermometer. These diaries constituted 
a complete spiritual register. By the aid of certain well- 
worn texts her father had noted the various atmospheric 
pressures, so to speak, of his soul: the unworthy doubts 
that assailed him and their dispersion by the sunlight of 
faith, the unworthy longings and the consequent depres- 
sion of spirit ; the anticyclones of the soul ; the electrical 
disturbances. She could, without difficulty, have assigned 
to every spiritual phenomenon recorded in these papers its 
name in the language of meteorology. Her father was 


THE MAIDP]N PLANS. 


93 


clearly an earnest and intelligent registrar of the spiritual 
atmosphere in which he had been enveloped; and now he 
was a passenger aboard a vessel approaching the coast of 
North America, having committed fraud— perhaps forgery 
—and having allowed his daughter to assist his escape by 
the most doubtful of methods. 

She read page after page of his experiences -of the con- 
flict of a spiritually-minded man with the World and the 
Flesh, and of the victories which he had achieved through 
dwelling upon certain texts (quoted in full). She read of 
the consolation that he had received during the Annual 
Week of Prayer — a sort of spiritual spring-cleaning insti- 
tuted by Mr. Davis. She read of the comfort that he had 
received through the medium of Mr. Davis’s preaching, 
“ The Sword of the Lord and of Gideon,” Mr. Davis had 
been called in one place, and in another “ the Jachin and 
Boaz of the Church.” 

She flung the book across the room, and in the course 
of its awkward flight, like that of a barn-door fowl, there 
fluttered from between the leaves a paper. She picked it 
up, and found that it was a letter written to her father the 
previous year by an illiterate woman, who addressed him 
as her “deerest Sammy,” and assured him that the com- 
munication which hoped to find him well, left her so “ at 
pressent.” It went on to thank Providence for the quick 
recovery made by “ our deer child ” from the perils of 
“ hooping coff,” and then asked for a little money. It was 
signed “ Mary Ann Pollock.” 

This letter was dated from a pleasant little village about 
twenty miles from Baymouth, on a line of rail on which 
she remembered her father had been in the habit of travel- 
ling on business, necessitating his absence from home for 
a night or two at intervals — regular intervals, for her 
father was a business man and methodical ; nothing could 
have been more regular than his irregularities. 

His daughter sat with the letter on her lap for a long 
time. 

Her father — the spiritual meteorologist — the victor in 
so many conflicts when doubts on certain delicate doc- 


94 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


trinal nuances presented tRemselves in serried files — her 
father ! . . . 

She fancied that she was beginning to know something 
about men. Her friend Mrs. Bennett Wyse had once said 
to her in London : 

“My dear Phil, if you want men to be intelligible to 
you, you had better begin by assuming that man is the 
head of the brute creation.” 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse was in the habit of saying shock- 
ing things when she had an appreciative audience. She 
was so cynical upon occasions that one might have fancied 
that she had only a superficial knowledge of the world. 
Philippa had never regarded her as more than a casual 
philosopher. Her philosophy was dependent upon the 
extent to which its definition lent itself to crystallisation 
in epigrammatic form. But with that letter lying on her 
lap, Philippa felt that Mrs. Bennett Wyse had not studied 
men in vain. She wondered if Mrs. Bennett Wyse had 
ever come upon such a letter as that which Mr. Samuel 
Liscomb had left behind him when he had set out on his 
voyage across the Atlantic. 

Her speculations were interrupted by a servant who 
came to announce a visitor ; and Philippa learned with 
surprise that this visitor was Lady Haven, Teddy Haven’s 
mother. His father was Sir Joshua Haven, an ex-Mayor 
of Baymouth, who had been knighted by a grateful Grov- 
ernment for having illegally used the influence of the 
Corporation of which he had been the head to secure the 
return of the Ministerial candidate at a critical general 
election. 

Lady Haven had never concealed her dislike to Phi- 
lippa since her son Teddy was known to be deeply affected 
in the opposite direction. She had been at the pains to 
tell another lady that she believed Philippa Liscomb to be 
the most designing girl in all Baymouth. This second 
lady disliked Philippa so thoroughly that she never failed 
to keep her well posted in all the disagreeable things 
people said of her; and she consequently took good care 
to repeat to Philippa the exact words employed by Lady 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


95 


Haven, adding on her own account that Lady Haven had 
alluded to her as “the girl with the red hair.” 

And now Lady Haven was waiting to see her in the 
drawing-room. 

Philippa felt that her conflict with Mr. Davis would be 
as a pleasant little fencing match compared to the duel 
which was impending with Lady Haven. But she felt 
little doubt as to the issue : Lady Haven would leave the 
house as Mr. Davis had left it. 

She did not keep her visitor waiting for long. She 
stood before her in the drawing-room and received her 
cordial grasp with a sympathetic response; hut she did 
not utter a word. Lady Haven did. 

“ Pardon my coming at such an hour, Philippa,” said 
she — she had known Philippa from a child. “But the 
fact is, that Teddy — that is, I mean, I hope you will look 
on me as a friend — on both of us — Sir Joshua and me — as 
anxious to befriend you in your hour of trial.” 

“It is so kind of you,” said Philippa. “You have 
always been so kind, so friendly, dear Lady Haven — so 
benevolent.” 

“No, no; not always— not always, I admit,” said Lady 
Haven. “ The fact is that you were never just as other 
girls are, Philippa ; you must allow that.” 

“ I fear that I must,” said Phil, with a little smile. 

“Yes, you were not as other girls You were not 
always understood. Perhaps that was not altogether your 
fault.” 

“ Did I not say that you were always benevolent — al- 
ways charitable ? ” 

“ And so— so— Sir Joshua and I are anxious to do what 
we can for you now ; and if you will come to us and stay 
until — well, until everything is settled, we shall be very 
glad. I will take you with me in my carriage now, if 
you will allow me.” 

Philippa was surprised— almost astounded, at the pro- 
posal of her visitor. But she did not fancy for a moment 
that the lady had made her proposition in an impulse of 
that charitable feeling which Philippa had pretended to 


96 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


ascribe to her. Teddy had conquered— that is what Phi- 
lippa thought in the little pause following Lady Haven’s 
delivery of her message of peace. Teddy was the only 
son of his mother, and he had his way in most matters 
that concerned the Haven menage. He could not per- 
suade his mother to love Philippa ; and his father had as- 
sured him that if he married that young woman she would 
have to support him, for not a single penny would he, Sir 
Joshua, contribute to that object ; but he had succeeded in 
inducing his mother to invite Philippa to their house to 
stay for a period which, if not definite, had certainly not 
been defined by Lady Haven. 

Yes, Teddy had triumphed over his mother. 

I feel your kindness deeply, Lady Haven,” said Phi- 
lippa ; “ especially as I have been told that attempts are 
being made to spread infamous reports abroad regarding 
my father. But I cannot accept your kindness. I do 
not feel that there is any need for me to leave home until 
I go away for ever in the course of a w^eek or two.” 

Philippa did not fail to notice the little gasp which 
Lady Haven gave at this announcement, or the little 
gleam of satisfaction which appeared in her eyes. 

“ Going away for ever ! ” she cried. “ Where on earth 
can you go to ? ” 

“ I have friends apart from the very dear ones whom I 
have known in Baymouth,” said Philippa. “ Yes, I owe 
them many visits. Perhaps I may be able to afford a 
small house— a flat, I daresay it will be — in London, later 
on.” 

“ Have you got no relations to go to ? ” asked Lady 
Haven, almost sternly. 

“I believe that I have an aunt or so somewhere or 
other,” replied Philippa; “but of course I could not think 
of appealing to them.” 

“ Why not ? Are they not your natural guardians ? ” 

“I do not think that I need any natural guardians, 
dear Lady Haven. I think I am old enough to live the 
life which I have planned out for myself, without being 
interfered with by persons whose ideas of life may not 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


97 


coincide with mine. I have been for a good many years 
in Baymouth; and you said just now that I had not j^et 
come to be understood by those who had every chance of 
understanding me — that is, assuming that I was worth 
trying to understand — a point upon which I fancy there 
must be a considerable divergence of opinion.” 

“ Young women have changed since I w^as a young 
woman,” said Lady Haven. “I fancy it must be America 
that has changed them. Yes, I put it down to America. 
Independence was never heard of until America started 
up; but. now we hear of nothing else. Girls read what 
they please, and discuss matters openly that I would not 
even whisper in the presence of my hu,sband. Yes, it’s 
thought nothing for a girl to go through the medical 
schools now-a-days; and hospital nursing— how becoming 
the dress is ! If it wasn’t for the distinctive dress that 
craze would soon subside. They want to appear some- 
thing out of the common, and they fancy that the nurse’s 
uniform gives them their chance.” 

“ I am sure that there is a great deal in what you say. 
Lady Haven,” said Philippa ; “ and yet hospital nursing is 
a career.” 

“ A husband is the legitimate career for a young woman 
— a respectable young woman,” said Lady Haven. “ What 
does any one of them want beyond a husband ? ” 

“ That is a question for experts, I suppose,” said Phi- 
lippa. “ I must confess that my sympathies are wuth you, 
Lady Haven : the husband as a career for a single woman 
has much to recommend it. But I was really under the 
impression that you were opposed to the modern move- 
ment in that direction.” 

Lady Haven could not but admit that that was very 
neatly said by Philippa; but her appreciation of its neat- 
ness did not prevent her feeling that it was meant as a 
thrust at herself; for had she not referred to Phi- 
lippa as the most designing young woman in all Bay- 
mouth ? 

“ What makes me ill,” said Lady Haven, — wisely ignor- 
ing the little thrust, — “ what makes me ill is the hypocrisy 


98 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


of those girls who pretend that they are anxious for a 
career, when all they are anxious for is a husband.” 

“ But you said just now that the only legitimate career 
for a young woman was a husband,” remai’ked Philippa. 

“ And I meant what I said. I did not say, however, 
that a young woman should become a hypocrite in order 
to snare a husband, my dear: and putting on a nurse’s 
uniform, and pretending to be devoted to the work, when 
all they really are anxious for is a husband, is hypocrisy — 
sheer hypocrisy.” 

“If they are good nurses — and many of them are good 
nurses — their hypocrisy is commendable, I think,” re- 
marked Philippa. 

“We are distinctly told not to do evil that good may 
come,” said Lady Haven, who fancied that when she had 
quoted a text there was nothing more to be said on the 
subject. 

“ But we are not told that it is wrong to do good that — 
well, that a husband may come,” said Philippa, smiling. 

“Have you seen Teddy lately?” asked Lady Haven, 
with startling digressiveness— though in her own mind 
she was pursuing a certain sequence of thought. 

“ Teddy ? Oh yes, he was so kind — yes, in his own way. 
He is the sort of brother I should like to have,” said Phi- 
lippa. 

“ Oh ! ” sighed Lady Haven — she had heard how the 
adoption of good-looking young' men as brothers was an- 
other development of the modern young woman. The 
young men w^ent everywhere with the young women ; they 
were occasionally kissed by them — when the young women 
were married— in public, and the husband did not seem to 
mind. 

“Yes,” continued Philippa. “I think I could trust 
Teddy.” 

“ Poor Teddy ! ” said the mother. “ I wish he and his 
father got on better together. Sir Joshua threatens to 
leave him with only the merest pittance if he marries con- 
trary to his wishes. He does indeed.” 

“ My sympathies are with Sir Joshua,” said Philippa 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


99 


simply. “ I should like them to he on your side, since you 
seem to think Teddy is being hardly dealt with, dear Lady 
Haven; but surely Sir Joshua has a right to do as he 
pleases with the money that he has made so honourably. 
Oh yes, my sympathies are with Sir Joshua.” 

Lady Haven looked at her as she spoke. She wondered 
if that girl with the red hair — Lady Haven called it red, for 
her hair was of that sort which one’s enemies called red, 
and one’s friends call golden — was sneering. Philippa re- 
sponded to her scrutiny with a sweet smile. 

My dear,” said Lady Haven in a low voice, “ I think 
that I should express to you my thanks for the considera- 
tion you have shown to Sir Joshua and me in this mat- 
ter.” 

“ In what matter ? ” asked Philippa, wonderingly. 

“ In the matter of Teddy,” replied the mother. “ Of 
course it was but natural that my boy should confide in 
me: he told me all.” 

“ It was but natural,” said Philippa. 

“You were quite right to refuse him, dear; he would 
never have suited you,” said Lady Haven, confidentially. 

“ But I did not refuse him,” said Philippa. 

“ What ? ” Lady Haven had started to her feet. “ You 
wish to make out that you accepted him ? ” 

“ I wish to make out nothing of the sort, dear Lady 
Haven.” 

“ Great heavens ! What can you mean, Philippa Lis- 
comb ? You either accepted him or refused him: a door 
must either be open or shut.” 

“ A door is wooden ; but I am a woman. Lady Haven.” 

“ What does that mean ? ” 

“ It is a hard saying. Think over it. Lady Haven.” 

“I think I see what your intention is: you mean to 
keep him dangling after you ? ” 

“ I mean that Teddy and I shall always be good friends, 
and also Teddy’s father and mother.” 

“ Your wish will not be realised if you are foolish 
enough to marry him. He will not have a penny.” 

“ Then there will be one more penniless good fellow in 


100 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


the world : I have met numbers up to the present time, 
Lady Haven.” 

At this point in the duel two more lady visitors were 
announced ; and when they entered they found Philippa 
and Teddy Haven’s mother standing clasping each other’s 
hands and looking into each other’s faces. 

“ I shall never forget your kindness, dear Lady Haven,” 
Philippa was saying in a low earnest tone ; “ but I feel that 
my place is in this house until — well, until everything is 
settled.” 

The two lady visitors, who were well aware of the na- 
ture of the report regarding Philippa’s designs which had 
been spread abroad by Lady Haven, were so greatly amazed 
that neither of them could remember the exact texts which 
they had carefully prepared for this occasion. They meant 
to flash texts in her face pretty much on the same princi- 
ple as that adopted by people who catch birds at night, by 
flashing a lantern suddenly when they are roosting. They 
meant to hypnotise her with texts, and then get her to con- 
flde in them everything that she knew— well, not exactly 
everything, for they believed that Philippa knew a good 
deal ; but certainly such matters as (1) the frauds of her 
father; (2) what provision (if any) he had made for her; 
and (3) if Teddy Haven had behaved honourably. 

They went away disappointed. 

But before the evening of that day had come, whatever 
disappointment Philippa may have experienced at the ease 
with which she had overcome the preacher, Mr. Davis, and 
defeated the intentions of Lady Haven, was more than 
counterbalanced by the recollection of an hour she had 
passed with another visitor on that day. 

His name was Maurice Wentworth. As he had been 
passing through Baymouth he could not, he said, refrain 
from inquiring where Miss Liscomb lived, in order that he 
might again learn definitely from her own lips that she 
had not suffered materially from his want of thought in 
shouting out as he had done the name of his friend Alfred 
Bentham at the Steeplecross inn. 

Well, he had an ample opportunity of learning once 


THE MAIDEN PLANS. 


101 


more all that he desired to know, for he remained with 
her for more than an hour, and when he had said farewell 
and was in the act of waiting for the next train to lion- 
don, he felt that Miss Liscomb was not merely the most 
beautiful woman whom he had ever seen, she was also one 
of the bravest of women. She did not 'weary him with 
meaningless lamentations in regard to The Blow — indeed, 
she only made one reference to her father, and that she 
made in a spirit of resignation to his loss. Yes, she was 
the bravest of women. 

And Philippa, as she lay back in her chair, awaiting 
the arrival of Mr. Thompson, thought a good deal about 
Mr. Wentworth. 

Then Mr. Thompson arrived, and they had a very in- 
teresting hour together, and without a disagreeable word 
being spoken on either side. Two days afterwards she re- 
ceived a note from Mrs. Bennett Wyse — a short note, but 
as pleasant as if it had occupied half a dozen pages of the 
crimson paper on which Mrs. Bennett Wyse wrote with 
terra-cotta ink. 

“ Quite rights'''' the note ran. “ I shall only he too glad 
to have you for an indefinite time. We need you : you 
have the right sort of hair. — Poppy.” 


BOOK THE SECOND. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


CHAPTER I. 

ATTEMPTS TO ASSIGN TO THE RACONTEUR A POSITION IN A 
SOCIETY OF VARIED EXPERIENCES. 

Sir George Breadmore was telling one of his stories, 
— a comparatively new one, but not the less attractive to 
his hearers on that account. It concerned the Rajah of 
Mandrapore and the Zenana Mission, and the incidents 
had come under the notice of Sir George himself when 
discharging his official duties in the Bengal Presidency, 
doubtless with that tact the exercise of which had caused 
him to be decorated with the Star. 

It appeared that one May an unusually enthusiastic 
meeting on behalf of the Zenana Mission had been held at 
Exeter Hall, and quite a number of young women had 
offered their services as workers in this interesting section 
of the Vineyard. An imperfect summary of this meeting, 
with some account of the leave-taking of the young women 
and their friends on the quarter-deck of the steamship 
Trichinopoly^ appeared in a local Indian newspaper ; and 
the notice of both functions had been so imperfectly trans- 
lated to the rajah, he was led to believe that the object of 
the Mission was simply to augment the personnel of the 
royal zenana with the flower of English maidenhood. 
This was welcome news to him; for his wife-list was get- 
ting low, and the next girls on the roster for promotion 
were not so comely as they might have been. He had 

( 102 ) 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


103 


always had the greatest admiration for English women, 
but the short-sighted policy of the Indian Council had 
hitherto discouraged his tendencies in this direction. It 
appeared to him, liowever, that the people of England 
were taking a more liberal view of a question that should 
surely be decided on the broadest basis ; for if the act of 
sending out some tvv^elve or fourteen young women — he 
assumed that they were young — to his zenana did not 
mean this, what could it mean ? 

He was looking forward with great interest to so wel- 
come an accession to his harem, and awaited with impa- 
tience the arriv^al of the Trichhiopoly. The steamer had 
scarcely dropped her anchor before he was alongside in 
the royal launch — he had thoughtfully towed out to the 
steamer a barge that would carry fifteen or twenty ladies 
and at least a portion of their luggage, under the silken 
awnings. On asking to have the zenana missionaries pre- 
sented to him, there was a full muster of those young 
women— assuming their youth — on deck. But so soon as 
the first made her appearance the rajah’s countenance was 
noticed to fall ; the next three or four who presented 
themselves did not cause his eyes to glisten ; by the time 
the ninth had joined the muster his highness was half-way 
down the handrail ; and the twelfth hurried to the side of 
the steamer only to find the launch a hundred yards 
towards the shore, and the chief officers of the royal 
household engaged in throwing coal on the furnace. The 
rajah steamed like fury ashore, and mounting his ele- 
phant, rode to the palace and gave orders for the draw- 
bridge to be raised and for the guards to shoot down any- 
thing they saw approaching with a blue veil, black kid 
gloves, a kilted skirt, and a sheaf of umbrellas. 

Sir George was an excellent raconteur, and as he was 
a man of many experiences. East and West, he never 
failed to be entertaining. He told his little story as natu- 
rally as if he believed every word of it himself, and was 
very anxious that no point of it should be exaggerated. 

The girls in his neighbourhood laughed, and Mrs. Ben- 
nett Wyse said the story might be told anywhere: it was 


lOi 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


not quite so amusing as some of the seraglio stories which 
Sir George had told them ; but it certainly possessed the 
advantage of being susceptible of narration in all circles. 

Did he remember, she wondered, at that moment a story 
that could not be so described ? 

He declared that he was fortunate in having a memory 
that discarded all stories that he had heard, with the ex- 
ception of such as would be understood by all the guests 
of Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

This description of his anecdotes was pronounced by a 
young man in boating flannels a trifle ambiguous; and a 
young woman in the foreground who was drawing on her 
gloves, said, with a laugh, that she believed it was only 
Sir George’s personal experiences that would not bear to 
be chronicled. 

He looked at her reproachfully, saying, 

“ And this is my reward for having told you a story 
with as pretty a moral as could be asked for by any young 
woman ! ” 

“ Where is she ? ” asked Madame de Ligueres. 

“ Where is who ?” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ The young woman who makes inquiries regarding 
morality,” said Madame de Ligueres. 

“We must have left her behind in the excitement of 
starting,” said Lady Annadale. 

“ I haven’t met her for some years,” said the boy in 
flannels; “I expect she’s dead.” 

“ She is ; and an American showman has made an offer 
for her skeleton for a dime museum,” remarked another 
man 

“For her skeleton? how hoi’rid!” said Mrs. Bennett • 
Wyse. 

“ All curious things are horrid,” said Philippa Liscomb. 

“ They are. You are curious, Tommy,” said Lady Anna- 
dale, to a very young man who carried Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s 
sunshade. 

“And all horrid things are curious: you are extraordi- 
nary, Dickybird,” remarked a very young -woman to a 
well-preserved gentleman who was known in the peerage 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


1()5 


— and in less select company — as the Earl of Sandy cliff e. 
He was the uncle of the young girl who had called him 
Dickybird. His name was Richard, but most people had 
forgotten it; he had no use for a Christian name. It was 
like the baronetcy which was attached to his titles — an ac- 
cidental redundancy that benefited no one. His nieces 
knew nothing of the baronetcy; but they knew that he 
was fully entitled to a Christian name, so they called him 
Dickybird. 

“ I am extraordinary, to stand the impudence of a chit 
like you,” said the earl genially. He was usually genial 
during the intervals when his wife ceased from troubling 
him. She sometimes did cease, he was accustomed to ex- 
l)lain to his friends when they were curious on the sub- 
ject. 

He had been indiscreet enough to marry a girl of twenty- 
one when he was a man of twenty -two. Every Peerage re- 
corded the date of his birth, so that it was known that he 
had reached his fifty-sixth year. A short calculation was 
sufficient to show that his wife vras thus in her fifty-fifth 
year; but unfortunately, as Lord Sandycliffe was in the 
habit of explaining, he was constitutionally incapable of 
loving any woman over thirty— as a matter of fact, the 
best authenticated records of his affection made it appear 
that he loved most ardently such young women as were 
hovering about twenty rather than thirty, though thirty 
is the age at which most women are given to love. 

The result of this constitutional infirmity — the term 
was his own — was that his wife had not lived with him 
for about twenty years. He treated her with great respect, 
only referring to her in the presence of her relations— of 
whom they were a considerable number— as a trophy of 
cutlasses, or a specimen of rare old crackle. 

Her relations, it was said, being well aware that her 
shoulder-blades had become quite unreasonably promi- 
nent, admitted the allusion to the cutlasses ; and perceiv- 
ing the vestiges of time upon her features, especially in 
the region of her eyes, they allowed the force of her hus- 
band’s analogy in respect of the crackle. If not crackle, 


106 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


she had at any rate something of the bric-a-hrac shop 
about her, the delicately scrupulous ones admitted. 

Then her relations drank his wine ; and, after borrow- 
ing a trifle, went away. 

Lord Saudyclitfe was very popular in society — the so- 
ciety of which Mrs. Bennett Wyse was a leader. He liked 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse, and had given up three engagements 
in order to form one of her boating party on the ilver. 
They had driven down to Richmond on the top of Tommy 
Tratford’s coach.; and, after lunch at the Star and Garter, 
the party had gone down to Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s boat, 
and had enjoyed a couple of hours on the river, drifting 
under the trees at one of the islands to make tea. It was 
while the various members of the party wei'e lying about 
on the boat cushions, feeling very little the worse for this 
form of refreshment, that Sir George Breadmore had told 
his little story, and Carry Croft had called her uncle 
Dickybird. 

“ By the way,” said Madame de Ligueres, interrupting 
the bandying of broad personalities, “ why shouldn’t Sir 
George's story be taken in earnest ? ” 

“ In earnest ? How ? ” asked Lady Annadale. 

“ Why, about the idea of the seraglio as a career for the 
English daughter.” 

“ Oh, heavens ! ” cried the narrator. 

“ Oh, heavens yourself ! ” said one of the young 
women— one of the youngest. “ I think the idea bashy- 
bash.” 

(It may be remembered that “ bashy-bash ” meant, for 
one year in English society, an unalloyed pleasure.) 

“I think there’s the germ of a bashy-bash idea in it 
myself,’’ remarked Mrs. Bennett Wyse thoughtfully. 

“With the benediction of the Church?” said Lord 
Sandy cliff e inquiringly. 

“ Why not ? The Church will benedick everything 
that becomes popular,” said Lady Annadale. “Did you 
hear that the archbishop was going to set up a racing stud, 
and that he had sworn on the altar to win the Derby be- 
fore he died ? ” 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


107 

“Yes, it’s a fact,’’ said Tommy Trafford. “The arch- 
bishop told me so himself. I’m his pal.” 

“ Yes, and he’s thinking of having the betting of the 
evening before read out immediately after the offertory,” 
said Carry Croft. 

“ That will fill the church if anything can bring out 
the people nowadays,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“If you start the notion of the seraglio as a career for 
the English girl it will be accepted by all England to- 
morrow,” said Madame de Ligueres. “The Introspectors 
are the greatest power in social England to-day.” 

“ Introspection is a going concern,” said Sir George. 
“But some of these days its shares will drop. We had 
better keep the brilliant idea of Madame de Ligueres’ for 
next year’s boom. What do you say, Queen Poppy ?” 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse, who was so addressed by her inti- 
mate friends, said, 

“ You are perfectly right, as usual, Georgium Sidus,’’ 
— Sir George was usually so addressed by his friends 
(mostly ladies) out of compliment to his Indian decora- 
tion. 

“ Yes, you see we couldn’t be more talked about than 
we are at present; so that nothing would be gained by 
bringing forward the seraglio question, bashy-bash though 
it sounds.” 

“ There’s something in that,” said Lady Annadale. 
“Introspectors are in the field to-day, but goodness knows 
where they’ll be next year. You know Charlie Brooks, 
who invented the unbreakable coach-pole ? Well, he told 
me that when he went to take out his patent for it he 
found that about fifty other claspers [clasper was that 
year’s name for the Johnny of some years before] had 
been working at the very same idea; he was just a day 
ahead of the foremost of them. Now that’s what my idea 
is about the Introspectors: there are hundreds of claspers 
and claspees \claspee : feminine of clasper] at the present 
moment doing their best to invent something to send us 
up against the rails and take our place in the running. 
Now, if we give the people all we know just now, weTl 
8 


108 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


have nothiog to fall back upon when we have to make an 
effort.” 

“ What a speech ! ” remarked one of the boys in flan- 
nels— not the one who was sprawling at her feet, having 
playfully put his boating cap on the toe of one of her 
shoes that projected an inch or two beyond what Tommy 
Trafford, who sailed a yacht, termed “the bilge of her 
frock.” 

“ There’s sense in every word of it,” cried Sir George. 
'‘Yes, we’ll go to the country on the great question of 
the seraglio as a career for the Superfluous Woman. It’s 
the reasonable solution of the greatest question that has 
ever stirred this great old England of ours to its depths.” 

‘‘We must husband our resources,” said the Queen 
Poppy. 

“ And our daughters,” said Lady Annadale. 

“ F61ise,” — Mrs. Bennett Wyse turned to Madame de 
Ligueres — “ F61ise, if my name were to be kept out of the 
leading articles now, I should die.” 

“ You would then attain your object,” said Lord Sandy- 
cliffe, “ for every x)aper in the kingdom would write a 
leading article upon you.” 

“ P’shut ! there’s no likelihood of your popularity wean- 
ing,” said F61ise, — “ at least not so long as ” she paused 

and glanced at Philippa. 

“ So long as what ? ” asked Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“Don’t be a goose; you know as well as I: so long as 
Philippa Liscomb’s hair snares the sunlight of God and 
the souls of men in its meshes.” 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


109 


CHAPTER II. 

DETAILS OF THE FURTHER PROCESSES BY WHICH A YOUNG 
WOMAN WORKS OUT HER OWN FREEDOM. 

Philippa had been for more than a month tlie guest of 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse, and she could not hut acknowledge 
that her position was a very pleasant one. She had hated 
Baymouth because the people in that town had failed to 
appreciate her — her talents, her beauty, and her knowledge 
of the art of dressing. She felt convinced that in London 
she would obtain a satisfactory amount of appreciation 
for all three; and she had not been disappointed. 

She had arrived at the house of Mrs. Bennett Wyse at 
a good time. The culte of Introspectors had just been 
started, and the people were talking about little else. The 
people in London appeared to be divided into two sets: 
the set who clustered around Mrs. Bennett Wyse, and the 
set who were anxious to join that set. The persons who 
sneered at her set were those whose anxiety to become 
amalgamated with it was greatest; it was when they could 
not accomplish their object they tried to sneer down the 
Introspectors; and by their attempts in this direction they 
advertised the existence of the Introspectors in quarters 
where their name had never been heard. 

The season became known afterwards as the Intro- 
spectors’ Year. It succeeded the Costermongers’ Year; 
and every one knows that the Costermongers’ Year fol- 
lowed the Skirt-Dancers’ Year. In the far-off past were 
the Cowboys’ Year, the Divorce Court Year, the Sub- 
merged Tenth Year, and the Slumming Year. Society in 
Mayfair and the i^urlieus of that region had been stirred 
to its depths during each of these seasons by the topic 
which had imparted distinction to the year. Every other 
topic had been forced into a background so distant as to 
be practically beyond the horizon of Mayfair altogether. 

Who could talk of anything that had not a bearing 
upon the costermonger and his domestic habits in the 


no 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


Costermongers’ Year ? What interests, political or re- 
ligious, were thought worthy of consideration apart from 
the skirt- dancer in the Skirt-Dancers’ Year ? What enter- 
tainment possessed an interest for society apart from the 
slums in the Slumming Year ? and how petty did not the 
ordinary ma,tters of life seem compared with the duties of 
Introspection in the Introspectors’ Year ! 

It was never rightly proved who was responsible for 
the invention of the scheme of modern Introspection. 
Some people said it was a Finn who had written a play, 
and others said that - it was a woman w^ho had written a 
novel ; but all were agreed upon one point — namely, that 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse and a few of her friends had made 
Introspection fashionable. They had, in fact, taken up 
Introspection and developed it into what some newspapers 
called a craze, and others a Great and Living Truth. 

Until young women read the Scandinavian Play, and 
the Introspective Novel, they had no notion what extraordi- 
nary beings they were. The majority of them, if they had 
ever given a thought to their own souls, had merely done 
so through the medium of the Collect for the Day, and the 
Offertory at Morning Service. (Of course, no one ever 
thinks of fancying that a twenty minutes’ sermon applies 
to oneself.) But now they began to perceive that their 
souls were well worth attention. They had never had 
justice done to them before. Why, the soul of a young 
woman was the most marvellously complicated piece of 
machinery that existed. It amply repaid study; and so 
they studied it — on the stage, in book form, and through 
the agency of the Introspectors’ Culte. (The Introspective 
music-hall entertainment had not been fully developed 
when a new idea that had nothing to do with Woman’s 
Soul was sprung upon society, and Introsx)ection became 
anmrnic.) 

The soul of a young woman was a Problem, we were 
told, and, so far as could be gathered, it was not a fitting 
companion for a young woman ; it usually led her astray 
just when every one fancied that she was getting accus- 
tomed to it, and that it was keeping her straight. It was 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


Ill 


very fascinatiDg* to young- women to feel tliat they had 
Problem Souls concealed somewhere about them ; and 
when they read of all the other yoiing women who had 
suffered, not through any will of their own, hut simply 
because of these Problem Souls, they began to think very 
highly of themselves, and to sneer at men, who had no 
Problem Souls, but only those of the most ordinary con- 
struction, that ground out the one old tune until everybody 
had become tired of it. The soul of man is a musical-box 
of only one tune; while that of woman is one which, 
when properly wound up, will commence, it may be, with 
a jig, and then, without even giving the “click” that 
comes from an ordinary musical-box, proceed to a state ly 
minuet or saraband, then on to a fugue, a revival hj'inii, a 
Polish mazurka, and a funeral march. 

The Problem Souls were supposed to behave in this 
way; and as every young woman fancied that she pos- 
sessed at least one, there was a good deal of mixed music 
in that year. 

But the young women whose souls were written about 
seemed entitled to go astray every now and again, and yet 
be forgiven by their husbands or lovers ; for it was quite 
expected that the men would have sense enough to see 
how the women were absolutely innocent — how they had 
simply been pow^erless in the grasp of their Problem Souls. 

But whenever a man chanced to go astray, the women 
refused him house room. 

That is what was meant by Introspection. 

Now Mrs. Bennett Wyse and a few of her friends had 
mocked at the Finnish Drama and the Introspective 
Novel ; but they had the cleverness to perceive the fasci- 
nation which all this talk about Women’s Souls and 
man’s soul was likely to have for that society whose very 
existence depends upon novelty; and they had, accord- 
ingly, founded the Introspectors, and given the world to 
understand that not to be an Introspector was not to be in 
the most interesting society in the world — the society in 
the midst of which even the exclusive tastes of Royalty 
found gratification. 


112 


ONl^ FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Only one essential to the complete success of the Intro- 
spection movement was wanted — namely, a new face. 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse and her friends were clever enough 
to perceive this. They knew that what society longs for 
with the deepest longing is not the woman who has 
painted a new picture, or the man who has discovered a 
new country, — but a new face. Mrs. Bennett Wyse had 
granted interviews to the representatives of several illus- 
trated newspapers; she had very clearly stated what were 
her opinions on the subject of the great future that there 
was for Introspection; and her portrait had been pub- 
lished in every newspaper. But she was also clever 
enough to know that people were beginning to say so soon 
as they had picked up one of those papers : 

“ Why, if this isn’t another portrait of that Bennett 
Wyse woman! Haven’t we had about enough of her?” 
And feeling convinced that they were saying this— she 
had actually heard one man say the very words at a book- 
stall— she felt very strongly that a new face was needed to 
make the movement a success. She knew that the woman 
who introduces the new face into society receives quite as 
much favour as the possessor of the new face, and just 
when she was considering in what direction she should 
look for the novelty, she received Philippa’s letter. 

Well, Philippa had arrived at her friend’s house in 
Battenberg Gardens; and even before she was embraced, 
she was anxiously led by her friend to the largest window 
in her boudoir. Mrs. Bennett Wyse had arrived at an 
age to appreciate the blessing of small windows, and she 
felt that the friendship of a pink light was the most faith- 
ful on earth. But when the blind was drawn up a pretty 
fair amount of natin*al light was admitted within a cer- 
tain area. She placed Philippa within that area, and 
scrutinised her hair with the eyes of the One Who 
Knows. 

Then she gave the girl a kiss. 

“ Thank heaven! ” she cried fervently, “ it is all right.” 

“ What ? my hair ? Oh, I fear the journey has made 
it shocking,” said Philippa. 


THE MAH APPEARS. 


113 


“ Thank heaven ! ” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse again. “ I 
thought my memory did not deceive me. But hair— espe- 
cially golden hair — the real red golden hair— is such a 
tricky thing. You may fancy you have got the exact 
tone one day and the next it is gone. Every one suspects 
golden hair nowadays; but not such as yours. Take my 
word for it, Phil, there’ll be nothing talked about in town 
for the next month but your hair. It will make the for- 
tune of the Introspectors.” 

And it did. 

, From the first day that Philippa was seen by the side 
of Mrs. Bennett Wyse in the Park, the Introspective 
movement showed an upward tendency. 

A newspaper man— the editor of Masks and Faces— 
who caught sight of its glory, and knew the difference be- 
tween the real and the ideal in hair, begged for the privi- 
lege of an exclusive interview for a forthcoming issue of 
his paper, mentioning that it would be his privilege to 
acquaint the world with Miss Liscomb’s ideas on the 
burning question of Introspection and the Problem Soul. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse, being well acquainted with the 
resources of the paper and of the modern art of reproduc- 
tion, merely stipulated that the portrait accompanying the 
interview should be printed in colours on fine paper and 
issued as a supplement to the journal, which was the lead- 
ing weekly. 

“ Such a thing had never been done before,” the man 
explained. 

“ But that was the greater reason why it should be done 
now,” Mrs. Bennett Wyse remarked sweetly. 

The editor of Masks and Faces was a man who studied 
spiritual movements and other vagaries of the hour, and 
he thought he perceived his chance. He agreed to adopt 
the suggestion of Mrs. Bennett Wyse; and in a fortnight 
the finest coloured portrait that had ever been issued in 
England appeared as a supplement to the summer number 
of the paper. The face of Philippa Liscomb was on every 
newspaper stall, and the newspapers wrote leading articles 
upon the marvellous progress that had been made within 


114 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


recent years in Art for the Million. A few years ago, 
they said, so charming a reproduction as that of the hand- 
some young lady, whose name would be for ever asso- 
ciated with the development of Introspection, would have 
been the despair of artists in chromolithography; but now, 
through the intelligent enterprise of the leading English 
weekly, it was an accomplished fact, and it would assur- 
edly help to make more beautiful many a cottage interior 
— though for the matter of that, so artistic was the repro- 
duction, there was no room where it might not be hungi 
and constitute a mural embellishment that only required 
to be seen to command admiration. 

Philippa had, within a month of taking up her resi- 
dence in London, become quite as well known as Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse herself. 

It had come to her — that position in the world which 
she had long believed that she was entitled to occupy. 
She had not overestimated her beauty or her acquaintance 
with the art of dressing with originality, and yet with per- 
fect taste. She had done well to despise the people of 
Baymouth, who had not merely failed to appreciate her 
powers, but had actually had the insolence to call her “ the 
girl with the red hair who made herself conspicuous.” 

She wondered what the young women in Baymouth 
would say when they saw her portrait in the illustrated 
paper — the exact tint of her hair had been brought out by 
laborious printings — and when they read the leading arti- 
cles referring to her as fortunate enough to be gifted with 
a type of beauty over which the old Venetian painters — 
no period was specified — had expended their genius and 
that consummate knowledge of colouring which made 
their school the wonder of Europe. 

She laughed as she thought of the various dowdy young 
women of Baymouth who had professed to be shocked at 
the originality of some of her ideas in dress. She laughed 
as she thought of some of the men in Baymouth who had 
asked her to marry them. They were mostly Methodists 
and in a fair way of business, with prospects of seats on 
the Town Council or the Water Board. She laughed as 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


115 


she thought of Sir Joshua Haven’s declaring that he 
would leave his son a beggar if he married her. 

She had attained within a month in the most interesting 
society in London a position which was coveted by thou- 
sands of women. She knew that thousands of women had 
been scheming all their lives and had spent fortunes upon 
dinner parties and dances, and subscriptions to charities, 
in order to obtain a footing in the society into the midst 
of which she had simply stepped. She did not know ex- 
actly what some women with whom she had become ac- 
quainted would give to have their portraits reproduced in 
a weekly paper; but Mrs. Bennett Wyse had no hesitation 
in estimating what they were prepared to sacrifice in ex- 
change for such a distinction,— and Mrs. Bennett Wyse 
seemed to know all about such matters. Yet there was 
her portrait, not in black and white, but in the loveliest 
colours, looking the whole world in the face from the 
windows of the news-vendors. 

She had conquered the world. She had had an idea 
the day that her father had made her acquainted with his 
embarrassments that her opportunity was at hand. That 
was why she had urged upon him to lend himself to a 
scheme which sounded like an account of the “plot” of 
one of the wildest flights of the melodramatist. Her op- 
portunity had come, and she had taken advantage of all 
that it offered to her. 

She had emancipated herself from the life she detested, 
and now. . . . 

Well, now she was by the side of Lord Sandy cliffe on a 
seat on the roof of Tommy Trafford’s coach, while the four 
bays were pawing their way down Richmond Hill. 


116 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

REPEATS A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO PERSONS ON 
WHAT IS STRICTLY A HORTICULTURAL QUESTION. 

Only an hour and a half could Mrs. Bennett Wyse 
and Philippa throw away upon a doze on returning from 
their laborious day on the river. They were due to dine 
at half-past eight at the house of the hospitable Mrs. Dean, 
a lady well known for her efiPorts to keep herself abreast 
of the time by entertaining the most notable personages of 
the hour. 

The adoption of this system certainly gave Mrs. Dean 
the assurance of an ever- varying circle of guests ; for the 
notable personages of one hour were quickly shouldered 
out of the way by the notable personages of the next hour. 
In some houses in London the guests are all Coming 
Men ; and Mrs. Dean had long ago been accustomed to fill 
her house with such men; but she complained to one of 
her friends of the time she had wasted over them. They 
were always coming, but they never came, she said. So 
now she had made up her mind to pay attention only to 
such persons as had already come, and come to the front. 

She admitted that the conversation of the Coming Men 
had kept her rather in advance of the hour; for they had 
all been able to tell her exactly what England should 
think to-morrow, but their to-morrow' w^as such a long 
way off, she had arrived at the conclusion that it would be 
wiser for her merely to be made aware of what England 
was thinking to-day. 

She found that the interpreters of the hour were much 
pleasanter fellows than the seers. But then she had been 
foolish to expect to find the seers pleasant fellows. She 
confessed afterwards that if she had only remembered the 
works of Jeremiah, Joel, Habakkuk. and Thomas Carlyle, 
she would have known that the prophet is cantankerous, 
while the exponent of the hour is, as a rule, well contented 
with the things around him. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


117 


She knew that the Introspectors were agreeable people 
— she had met several of them, and had found them so ; 
and those of them whom she had met had never tried to 
force their principles upon her other guests. Indeed, they 
seemed to have a certain hesitation in defining their prin- 
ciples ; and this she felt to be another of their agreeable 
features. The coming persons had always shown a 
desire to make every one around them believe exactly 
what they themselves believed; and this led to bicker- 
ings which interfered with the proper service of the 
savouries. 

To be sure, she had heard Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s set 
alluded to as “ fast ” ; but she had lived long enough in 
Mayfair to know that the people who allude to another 
set as “ fast are the people who are unsuccessfully striv- 
ing to get into that set. 

When Philippa had followed Mrs. Bennett Wyse into 
one of Mrs. Dean’s drawing-rooms and had shaken hands 
with her hostess and her husband, she found herself face 
to face with a painter who was noted for his skill in get- 
ting lovely women to lend themselves to his picture 
schemes. 

She knew that he wanted her to lend herself to him 
for a month or so in the best part of the season ; and she 
found him delicately leading up to the point of making 
such a demand upon her, when a voice behind her chair 
said: 

“ How do you do. Miss Liscomb ? I am to take you 
in to dinner, I am glad to say.” 

She turned from the insinuating painter with a little 
start, and found Maurice Wentworth beside her. 

The painter waited for the flush to follow the tiny gasp 
that she had given — it was part of his business to study 
the phenomena of the epidermis, as a Scotchman in the 
studio next to his called the maiden’s blush, the lover’s 
flush, and the craven’s pallor. He did not wait in vain. 
But he had never in his life studied so delicate a tinge as 
that which came upon her shoulders, and spread to her 
forehead as swiftly as the shadow of a cloud flies over 


118 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


a waste of snow, and disappeared as rapidly also. The 
painter knew that although he had observed the fluttering 
of the rose leaf cast from the parent rose, her heart — he 
had a poetical fancy which he did not invariably succeed 
in interpreting to his Scotch neighbour— the man whose 
approach had called for the manifestation would most 
likely fail to perceive it, for their hostess’s electric lamps 
were pink-shaded. And he was right: Maurice Went- 
worth did not perceive any flush upon Philippa’s shoul- 
ders, but he perceived her greeting of him had some meas- 
ure of warmth in it. She had not been spoiled by the 
success which she had achieved since he had passed that 
hour with her in her severely furnished drawing-room at 
Bay mouth. 

She had only time to express her surprise at meeting 
him when Mr. Dean, with a tiny peeress swinging on his 
arm, as a child swings on the handle of the village pump, 
made for the door, followed by a tiny baronet and a heavy 
matron and other assortments of rank and power on their 
way to the dining-room. 

“ There’s nothing surprising in my being here to- 
night,” said he; “I happen to be the nephew of our host- 
ess. And you — well, there’s nothing surprising about 
your presence here. Miss Liscomb: you are the leading 
exponent of the new culte, are you not ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” she said, as they seated themselves, and ex- 
amined their hors d'ceuvres. “ Oh, no ; I am not even 
. one of the exponents.” 

‘‘ You are surely not the example ? ” said he. 

“ The example ? ” 

“ Yes, you know that the teetotal people who go round 
the country lecturing take with them a lantern of dissolv- 
ing views— the Wine-bibber’s Home, the Demon of the 
Decanter, and such like — ^but even those startling disclos- 
ures would be of no avail among their audience did they 
not subsidise an example: the man who was once the 
head of a happy home— his mother’s pride, and his dear 
father’s hope and joy, but who was brought to the frock 
coat and mufiler stage through giving way to an apparent- 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


119 


ly perpetual thirst. I understand that the example does 
most of the work.” 

“ You suggest that I am an example of what can be ac- 
complished by Introspection,” said Philippa. 

“ Yes — judicious Introspection. Nothing microscopic, 
you know.” 

“I am not even that, Mr. Wentworth. I am only a 
friend of Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s.” 

‘‘ I am rather glad to hear that,” said he. ‘‘ I see two 
or three people at this table who have done their best to 
make us believe that a woman is no longer a woman, but 
simply a note of interrogation.” 

“ And that a man is a note of exclamation — of admira- 
tion, my grammar called it,” said Philippa. 

“ Quite so, only we are not to admire the man who has 
lain in a hammock under the Tree of Knowledge until the 
fruit almost dropped into his mouth.” 

“No; we’re not to admire such men: I don’t suppose 
such men admire themselves.” 

“ I don’t see how’^ they can. But there's the Tree of 
Knowledge anyhow, standing in the midst of the garden, 
and men are more or less frugivorous animals.” 

“Mrs. Bennett Wyse says that man is the head of the 
brute creation,” said Philippa, with a laugh 

“ And it is well known that fruit-eating animals like to 
pluck at the Tree of Knowledge directly ; they do not eat 
jam with a relish.” 

“ I begin to perceive. The jam is for girls.” 

“Exactly. The fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, boiled 
down with a little sugar, is the thing for girls; the fresh 
fruit of the Tree of Knowledge is poison to them. The 
jam is the sermon that instructs ; the Tree of Knowledge 
is man’s life.” 

“ I hope that I shall marry some one v/hom I love,” 
said Philippa, when the first entrees had been served. 
“ Love asks no questions.” 

“People occasionally do marry those whom they 
love,” said he. 

“ And live happy ever after,” said she. “ But with re- 


120 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


gard to the Introspectors, you must know that we belong 
only to what may be called the social wing.” 

“ Then there are grades even among the Introspect- 
ors ? ” 

“Certainly there are: onlj’’ not formal grades. We 
are all supposed to hold the same principles, but we can- 
not all write books or plays to illustrate these principles.” 

“But you nearly all do, I think.” 

“ Oh, dear no ; onlj' three or four of us. But Mrs. Ben- 
nett Wyse thinks that, after all, the social wing accom- 
plishes more good than the literary wing.” 

“ What ! do you go so far as to aim at doing good ? ” 

“Of course we do — in a small way ; it’s only the liter- 
ary wing that goes the length of saying that Introspection 
means the eventual reformation of society. The social 
wing cannot he accused of taking too serious a view of 
life. But of course we are supposed to aim at doing a 
great deal of good.” 

“ And have you succeeded in doing any good yet ? ” 

“ Personally I have succeeded in being asked to dine 
with a number of very clever people and a few i3eers at 
Mrs. Dean’s.” 

“ And that has done good — to one of the partakers of 
the dinner, at any rate — I can answer for one. Yes, I 
think I'm inclined to believe in the social wing more than 
in the literary — the social wing is the liver wing of the 
Introspective chicken. I do hope that Mrs. Bennett Wyse 
will allow me to be presented to her after dinner. I shall 
only be in tov/n for another month.” 

Philippa murmured something to the effect that she 
was certain Mrs. Bennett Wyse would be greatly pleased 
to meet him ; and then all conversation came to an end, 
as an elderly lady, speaking with an American accent, 
preached to the whole table a discourse on her individual 
impressions on the duties of wives whose husbands have 
strayed from that path which is so narrow that only a 
husband and wife can walk abreast along it, leaving no 
room for a third person, male or female. The lady’s name 
was Mrs. Imogene P. Hoskis, and she had just come from 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


121 


Jasperville, Ky., to let the matrons of England know what 
course they should adopt under the trying circumstances 
which she ventured to define with great firmness and 
breadth of touch. 

She had not quite come to the end of her discourse when 
there was a flutter around her and a general displacement 
of serviettes. Mrs. Dean had looked meaningly at her 
peeress ; and the peeress had risen the moment that Mrs. 
Ploskis had made an enforced pause for breath, to prolong 
her explanation of the sins of the fathers and husbands. 
She felt disappointed at the interruption, and hung on to 
her chair as long as possible. It seemed as though she 
meant to remain at the table round which the men were 
standing in attitudes expressive of profound i^esignation on 
being left alone. Gradually Mrs. Imogene P. Hoskis 
came to take in the situation, and then she made for the 
door. 

She felt a certain amount of triumph in reflecting that 
although she had been interrupted, she had given the men 
the subject for a topic that should occupy them until they 
had swallowed the dregs of the claret jug. 

She was mistaken. The men lit their cigarettes, and be- 
gan to talk quite naturally about the House and the Prime 
Minister. What else do men talk about after dinner ? 


CHAPTER IV. 

BEGINS WITH AN APOLOGY AND ENDS WITH A QUESTION. 

Philippa had no great amount of trouble in inducing 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse to allow her to present to her Mr. 
Maurice Wentworth. Only Mrs. Bennett Wyse could 
not understand where it was that Philippa had met him 
before. 

“ I had no idea there were so presentable men at Bay- 
mouth,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “You were not to be 
so greatly pitied after all.” 


122 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Philippa explained with great promptitude that her 
claims to commiseration were in no way jeopardised by 
the fact of her acquaintance with Mr. Wentworth, inas- 
much as it had been begun far away from Baymouth. 

Then Mrs. Dean, as some one was beginning to play on 
the pianoforte, came beside Mrs. Bennett Wyse and Phi- 
lippa, and apologised with bated breath for the language 
that had been made use of by the lady from Jasperville, 
Ky. 

“ 1 never got such a shock in all my life,” said Mrs. 
Dean. 

“Oh, it didn’t shock us greatly,” said Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse. “We believe, you know, Mrs. Dean, in the free 
discussion of all topics, only we don’t discuss them. But 
there is no foolish pruriency about the Introspectors.” 

“ Of course not, of course not,” said the hostess. “ But 
it is one thing to refer to— well, to what that woman re- 
ferred, in legitimate phi’ases — the phrases of the drawing- 
room, and quite another to deal with it in her words — the 
phrases of the stable ; more especially as — as — well, jmu 
know that Sir Wilfrid and his wife — ah, well, we are all 
human.” 

“ That is our strong point,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ And our protection,” added Phil. 

Mrs. Dean looked first at one and then at the other. 
She had been remarking how very well the Introspectors 
were behaving ; quite unlike people who had the ear of 
the town. They might be talking upon any subject, so 
charmingly veiled were their phrases, she had said ; and 
this was really the strong point of the cidte : the members 
were never intelligible enough to shock people. She 
thought, however, that Mrs. Bennett Wyse and her charm- 
ing young friend might at least be intelligible in their ac- 
quiescence in her condemnation of the American woman. 

“And I can assure 3"ou that she was recommended to 
me as perfectly harmless,” resumed Mrs. Dean. “Her 
name is well known in the States, I believe.” 

“ I have heard of it,’’ said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “ She 
IS a specialist on that one particular question of morality. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


123 


She is much valued as a consultant there. How delight- 
fully convenient it must be to have specialists in every 
department of morality — people who tell you what is 
wrong, and what is its remedy, at a moment’s notice! 
Mrs. Imogene P. Ploskis’s department is the Erring Hus- 
band. She should have a fine practice in England.” 

‘‘ She shouldn’t talk shop in a strident voice at a din- 
ner-i)arty where there are — well, husbands,” said Mrs. 
Dean. 

At this j)oint the men began to steal in, and Maurice 
Wentworth walked directly to where Mrs. Bennett Wyse 
and Philippa were sitting ; and on Mrs. Dean presenting 
him to the former, he devoted himself to her, allowing 
Phil to glide into conversation once more with the enter- 
prising painter who got his models gratis. 

Philippa felt greatly flattered to observe that Mr. 
Wentworth never so much as glanced at her, but con- 
tinued talking earnestly to Mrs. Bennett Wyse, and, what 
was more to the point, listening attentively to everything 
that Mrs. Bennett Wyse had to say to him; and she usu- 
ally had a good deal to say to men. Philippa knew per- 
fectly well that Mr. Wentworth’s tactics proved that he 
was desirous of seeing something of her at the house where 
she was staying. She admired his cleverness in refrain- 
ing from giving the smallest glance in her direction while 
talking to Mrs. Bennett V/yse. 

She was not surprised when that lady remarked to her 
as they were being driven on to a small dance — one of the 
three at which they hoped to spend a few profitable hours 
in the course of the night ; 

“Quite a delightful man, your friend Mr. Wentworth. 
Pray remind me to send him a card for the Thirteenth.” 

“I must take a note of it when I get my dance-card at 
the Willis’s ; one forgets things like that so easily,” re- 
marked Philippa. 

She did not forget to make the required memorandum 
so soon as she had her dance-card. The Thirteenth was 
the first evening that Mrs. Bennett Wyse was at home, 
with “ Conversation ” in a corner. 

9 


124 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


. Mrs. Bennett Wyse was well aware that conversation 
(whether in a corner or in the open) is much more of an 
attraction to the average man or woman, than music, 
dancing, or even conjuring — forms of entertainment upon 
which ordinary hostesses depended for the allurement of 
worthy people to their drawing-rooms. 

About two o’clock Philippa Liscomb was lying, a mass 
of feathers and swansdown and lace and silk stockings, 
on the little couch in her dressing-room, too limp even to 
turn on the electric candles, so that the pearly glow of the 
summer’s dawn stole through the edge of the curtain and 
mingled with Ihe sunlight of her hair. Her hair sw’am 
over the pale blue pillow that filled up half the couch ; 
and this would probably have caused it to suggest to anj^ 
man with an imagination dull enough to look at her, and 
yet retain the power to think of images and similes and 
such like products of .self-possession, the hair of a drowned 
woman afloat upon a billowy waste, or the abundant 
tresses of a golden water plant. 

That stretches and swings to the slow, passionate pulse of 
the sea. 

She lay there with her eyes closed in wearines.s for 
half an hour ; but during that half hour no thought was 
in her mind save one, and that one was that eleven days 
must elapse before the Thirteenth. 

She started up suddenly as a nervous woman starts up 
from a dream that stirs her pulses. 

“ My God ! ” she cried, “is it possible that I am in 
love ? ” 

She stood there with her hair flowing over her ; then 
with another start she sent the lights glowing through 
the room, and began to undress feverishly. (She would 
never allow a maid to be aroused to undress her.) It took 
her a long time preparing for her bed ; but before she was 
conscious of settling her head upon the pillow, she was 
asleep. 

This circumstance would, in the estimation of a true 
Introspcctor, have constituted a complete answer to the 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


125 


question which she had put to herself with a considerable 
amount of vehemence. 

Love is sleepless. 


CHAPTER V. 

HOPES TO MAKE A READER AWARE OF THE EXISTENCE OF 
A RATHER IMPORTANT ELEMENT IN PHILIPPA’S NATURE. 

“ It is such a comfort to me to have you with me, my 
dear,” said the Queen Poppy to her young guest, so soon 
as they had had their joint interview with the talented 
Madame Lucy Jones, of Regent Street, who had, since 
seeing them the previous week, had some inspirations 
which she desired to submit to them. Madame Lucy 
Jones was a lady who was usually referred to as the 
Creator, inasmuch as it was held that she was responsible 
for the reputation for beauty and charm of manner which 
many women in society enjoyed. When ladies who were 
socially decrepid, having frittered away their good looks 
before they were fifty, began to realise their position, they 
’went to her, if they were well advised, and, by placing 
themselves unreservedly in her liands, became rehabili- 
tated. Her consummate geuius planned out for them a 
toilette scheme that invariably restored them to the posi- 
tion they had originally occupied in society. Having 
submitted her plans to them, after consultation, she, of 
course, set about the more difiicult duty of adapting each 
particular client to the toilette scheme she had drawn up. 
Here it was that her power was manifested. She made a 
grimace (borrowed from France) at the suggestion of paint 
and powder. These are remedies that are worse than the 
disorder, in her estimation. She shuddered at the notion 
of a dye for the hair. What was the matter with grey 
hair ? she inquired. Had not the most celebrated beauties 
of the world had grey hair when their beauty was most 
potent, and had not all womankind imitated it ? No ; she 
worshipped Nature, and she would not be a party to any 


12G 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


such outrage upon Nature’s devices as hair dye, or paint 
for the face. 

“ I have come to you, Madame Lucy,” said one lady to 
her with a sigh, “ because I find, alas ! that I am growing 
old.” 

“ Impossible ! ” said Madame Lucy. “ Growing old has 
gone out.” 

And so it has. 

It was said that, in addition to the massage treatment 
perfected by Madame Lucy Jones, she had also a plan for 
tightening the skin upon a face where it hung like drapery, 
only in less graceful folds. What her plan was no one 
seemed to know exactly; but some people said that the 
skin was drawn close and tied in a knot at the nape of the 
neck. 

Madame Lucy Jones had been the means of bringing 
back many an erring husband to the arms — now plump 
and dimpled where they had been anatomical and v/ispy 
— of a devoted wife ; and if the w'ife did not keep him there 
she did not deserve a second chance. 

Only half a dozen clients did Madame Lucy Jones visit 
professionally, and Mrs. Bennett Wyse was one of them. 
She did not, of course, visit that lady except as a consult- 
ant on some question of dress. The exact question which 
had been made the subject of the consultation on this day 
is not to the point; but it was on account of the intelligent 
remarks contributed by Philippa in the course of its solu- 
tion that Mrs. Bennett Wyse had said, 

“It is such a comfort to me to have you with 
me! ” 

“ I do hope so,” said Philippa. “If I did not think that 
it was, I would not stay with you another hour. But how 
good you have been to me, my Poppy ! Just think what I 
should be to-day if you had not been my friend. I tell 
you that I never had a friend at Baymouth. Fancy my 
continuing to live in that town on mj^ tAvo hundred a 
year ! ” 

“ You were right not to hesitate in coming to me, my 
dear Phil,” said the Poppy. “ How strange it was our first 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


127 

meeting at the Rowes two years ago! the daughter was at 
school with you, I think you said ? ” 

“ Don’t let us talk about the Rowes,” said Phil, with a 
pretty little shudder. ‘‘ They are as narrow-minded as the 
worst of the Baymouth people. I showed you the letter I 
received a week ago from Bertha Rowe ?” 

“ In which she said she had heard with deep sorrow 
that you had become one of the restless women of our time 
who were never happy unless their names were before 
the public — ‘restless women,’ that was what she called 
us ! ” 

“Detestable prig! But I can never cease to feel 
grateful to her for asking me to visit her when I met 
you.” 

“Didn’t we take to one another at once ? And now I 
hope we shall be together for long.” 

“ For ever.” 

The Queen Poppy laughed. 

“ For ever is a large order, Phil,” she said shrewdly. 
“Why, I don’t believe that even my husband will stay 
away for ever.” 

“I’m sure he won’t,” said Phil, in that hopeful tone that 
people assume when referring to the likelihood of a fine 
day in an English June. “ Oh, no ; why should he stay in 
South Africa for ever ? ” 

“ Why, indeed ? unless he hopes to make another mil- 
lion or so,” said the wife. “ But the poor dear enjoys him- 
self, and so do we. I wonder that Tommy hasn’t turned 
up yet.” 

Tommy Trafiford was the Poppy’s sunshade bearer. He 
was a good-looking lad, who had had the misfortune to 
have a few hundred thousand pounds left to him by a rela- 
tive some time before ; and he had been carrying on, Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse said, as if he had a fortune at his back, until 
she met him and undertook his reform. So skilful a 
trainer she had proved herself that he would now carry 
her sunshade for her as quietly as if he had been brought 
up to it. At the intervals of carrying her sunshade he was 
driving a coach, and, now again, a high phaeton, with Mrs. 


128 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


Bennett Wyse beside him. He had promised to call for 
her to-day and take her through the Park. 

“Tommy may be depended on as implicitly as a hus- 
band,” said Phil. 

“ Just as implicitly, I should say,” remarked the wife. 
“That brings me back to what I was talking about— or 
what I meant to be talking about. It brings me back to 
the ‘ for ever ’ phrase of yours. You said it was your hope 
that we should be together for ever.” 

“ And I meant it. ” 

“ That is why I laughed, ‘ For ever ! ’ What fools 
these men are, Phil ! ” 

“ They are. But why just now, my Poppy ? ” 

“ I was thinking of Tommy TraflPord.” 

“ Oh!” 

“ Tommy is a nice boy: I am beginning to think that 
all the fools are nice. ” 

“ He is nice; but Tommy is not a fool.” 

“ He is a fool. Why should he come here to drive 
about a woman who is old enough to be — well, his sister, 
w’hen he might be driving about one who is young enough 
to be — well, his wife ? ” 

The Queen Poppy was speaking with a vehemence 
that showed Phil that her friend fancied herself to be in 
earnest. 

“ Why does he not come to drive about you % ” she 
added, with the gesture of an actress asking a question of 
a rival in a domestic drama. 

Phil lay back in her chair and laughed heartily — pleas- 
antly. 

“ You needn’t laugh in that absurd way,” resumed the 
Queen Poppy. “ What I say is the truth.” 

“ You did not make any definite assertion, my Poppy,” 
said Phil, with the echo of her laugh still in her voice. 
“You only asked a question, and I answered it.” 

“ You— you never uttered a word.” 

“ My queen, I answered your question.” 

“‘You only laughed.” 

“Quite so: I answered your question, my dear Poppy. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


129 


Don’t you know quite as well as I do that Tommy TrafiPord 
would find no fun in driving’ me through the Park ? He 
does not like me, to begin with.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but couldn’t you make him like 
you ? ” 

“ I don't think I could — certainly not when you are 
handy, my Poppy.” 

“ What nonsense ! Don’t you know that I detest to be 
flattered ? ” 

“ I know it. Have you ever caught me at it ? ” 

“ Well, as a rule — but I won’t change the topic. Tom- 
my Trafford may be a young ass; but I like young asses 
when they’re well groomed, just as some people like Scotch 
collies, and others Shetland ponies.” 

‘‘He is always well groomed.” 

“ What I mean to say is this — What is the use of your 
being identified with the Introspectors and having the 
world raving about your hair and your beauty if it doesn’t 
lead to some first-class offer of marriage ? There now, the 
murder’s out ! I’ve been almost as brutal as that American 
woman.” 

“ Do you know,” said Phil, quietly, “ you have just 
asked a question which I put to myself over my chocolate 
this morning ? ” 

“ Oh!” 

“ Yes, I said, ‘ d'est magnifique^ mais ce ripest pas la 
guerre^'' meaning, ‘ this is a very delightful sort of life, but 
it leads to nothing.’ Of course, you know, scarcely two 
months have passed since — well, I don’t think I should 
wear anything with colour in it yet awhile.” 

(She wore black during the day and white at night.) 

“ If any man fell really in love with you he would not 
let any false delicacy keep him from speaking out. He 
would know that there was all the greater reason for 
speaking out at once. I had hoped that Tommy might 
be induced — he may be still, if you would meet him half 
way.” 

‘‘ Don’t think of it, my Poppy, oh, do not be uneasy 
about me. For myself, I have stifled my unworthy ques- 


130 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


tionings of the morning, and I do not think that they will 
arise again.” 

” But, surely, after the appearance of your portrait, you 
might have had at least some offer of a substantial kind, 
and yet you have not had one yet.” 

“ Oh, yes, I had one.” 

“ Great heavens ! Last night ? ” 

“No, yesterday.” 

“ On the river ? But I never lost sight of you for a 
moment.” 

“ Except on the coach driving home.” 

“ But you were sitting beside Lord Sandycliffe.” 

“ That I expect was the cause of it.” 

“ I wish to goodness you would speak plainly. From 
whom did the offer come ? ” 

“ Why, Lord Sandycliffe.” 

“ Lord Sandycliffe ! But surely you know that he has 
at least one wife alive already ? ” 

” So I gathered from what he said. But she is old. 
He said, ‘ God forbid that I should wish to see her in her 
coffin.’ ” 

“ And he meant it : she is not the sort of woman who 
would look her best there. Well ? ” 

“ But he added, ‘ God forbid that I’d wish her to live 
much longer.’ ” 

“ He meant that too. Then what he offered you was 
the reversion of the title of Countess of Sandycliffe upon the 
death of the present holder of that title ? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ And in the meantime ” 

“ Oh, Lord Sandycliffe was quite equal to suggesting a 
scheme that appeared feasible enough to him in the mean- 
time.” 

“ Horrid old man ! Oh, my dear Phil, I’m afraid that 
you’ll think I haven’t looked after you sufficiently. I 
shouldn’t have sat on the box seat with Tommy.” 

“ Don’t distress yourself, dearest PoppJ^ If you only 
had as good a time as I had, I should be the last to wish 
that you had taken, literally, a back seat. Poor Lord 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


131 


Sandycliffe ! He hoped to make a fool — a sort of fool — of 
me ; but I’m happy to think that the one fool on the back 
seat was not me.” 

“You did not tell him that he was an infamous old 
scoundrel, and that you’d thank him never to speak to you 
again ? ” 

“Oh, dear no. That is what ninety-nine girls out of 
every hundred would have said : I preferred being the 
hundredth. That startled him a hit.” 

“ What on earth did you say ? But tell me first where 
you got your knowledge of how to treat men ? ” 

“ I don’t know if I have such knowledge ; and I really 
couldn’t tell you what I said to Lord Sandyclift’e. But I’m 
convinced that he thinks to-day that I am dazzled at the 
prospect he held before me ; but the fact is that it is he 
who is dazzled at the prospect I held before him.” 

“ Great heavens ! I hardly know what to think about 
this business. You see, Lady Sandycliffe is bound to die 
some time.” 

“ Oh, yes ; even if she should be as long-lived as a 
chronic invalid, she’s bound to die some day.” 

“ And then he will certainly marry again, and settle 
down— they all do at last.” 

“ So it occurred to me. It would be a first-rate position 
for the daughter of a ruined business man in a manufac- 
turing town like Baymouth. Countess of Sandycliffe ! 
. . . why, what more could I look for, my dear Poppy ? ” 

“ You would not object to marry Lord Sandycliffe, 
then, if he were free ? ” 

“ Indeed I should not — provided that I loved him. For 
that matter, if I loved him I suppose it wouldn’t matter to 
me whether he was free or not ; I would accept his sug- 
gestions regarding that ‘ in the meantime.’ Ah, that is 
where the terror of love comes in. I do think of it in 
horrible terror sometimes. Poppy, My God ! the thought 
of what love means — love, as I understand it — frightens 
me as nothing else in the w'orld has power to frighten me. 
God save me from it !— God save me from it, or else give 
it to me ! — Give it all to me to do what I like with it ! ” 


132 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Philippa had sprung from her chair, and was imciiig 
the floor with eager feet. Then she stopped in front of 
the fireplace and bent her head down to her clasped hands 
on the edge of the mantel shelf. 

There was a silence in the room which was only broken 
by the sound of the prancing of horses’ hoofs in front of 
the hall door. 

‘‘ It’s the hair that does it,” murmured Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse. ‘‘I know exactly what to expect from hair like 
that. It plays wonderful tricks with a girl. Here is 
Tommy at last. Poor simple Tommy! On second 
thoughts, I’m glad you don’t intend to meet him half 
way, my dear : I perceive that no half way is possible 
with you. And I like Tommy.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

RETURNS TO THE PLANS WHICH PHILIPPA HAD ENDEAV- 
OURED TO MATURE FOR HER OWN ADVANTAGE. 

When Mrs. Bennett Wyse and her friend Tommy had 
driven away to the Park, Philippa continued sitting in 
the chair that she had occupied— except during that cu- 
rious outbreak of hers, when she had forgotten herself 
and, what was worse, forgotten the presence of Mrs. Ben- 
nett Wyse. She was sorry that she had failed to control 
herself at that time. She felt that her failure had given 
her hostess a very wrong impression of her nature ; but 
the fact was that Philippa herself had been startled by her 
own extraordinary behaviour. Half an hour before, if 
any one had suggested to her the possibility of her mak- 
ing those passionate references to love, not merely as an 
abstraction, but as a power as terrible as Fate and much 
more terrible than Providence, she would have laughed 
at ihe suggestion. It was the fashion of the set of women 
among whom she found herself to refer to love with cheap 
cynicism — to sneer at its very existence ; and to profess 
that all their actions in life, including marriage, had pro- 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


133 


ceeded from quite another motive than could be ascribed 
to love. 

Of course, those of the Introspectors who wrote the 
books and the plays endeavoured to make out that love 
had a very real existence ; but while one section suggested 
that it was something divinely spiritual, another section 
described it as being an impulse only of the flesh. The 
Introspector poet fancied that he had compromised mat- 
ters by alluding to it as the fleshliest of things spiritual 
and the most spiritual of things fleshly. 

This was all very well for a definition, she knew ; no 
one expects a definition to be anything but indefinite ; so 
she had not troubled herself looking into the matter any 
more closely. She held to her old belief in love, which 
was, that love is the best thing on earth, but that it is by 
no means immortal, and that those who believe in it 
should, before adopting it as j)art of their household, take 
care that suitable provision was made for its future — that 
an old age pension on a liberal scale might be guaranteed 
to it, so to speak, to save it from the humiliation of apply- 
ing for out-door relief. That out-door relief which she 
had seen applied for so often in households where love 
was comparatively young, was certainly the very humilia- 
tion of love ; and she had long ago, as has already been 
stated, made up her mind that, as she did not intend ever 
to become the victim of love, so she would never allow 
love to become her victim. In brief, she resolved that 
she would never love a man who was not rich enough to 
be able to avert the scandal of having the little chubby 
Love running about without a stitch of clothing on him, 
as he was represented doing — and with very great reason 
too— -by various painters and sculptors. Yes ; she would 
have a comfortable, well-clothed Love in the house, or 
none at all. 

She had said something to this effect one day to Sir 
George Breadmore, and he had gravely acquiesced in her 
idea; only he implored her not to put Love into a Little 
Lord Fauntleroy suit, to which he had, he said, a deeply 
rooted objection. 


134 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Sir George Breadniore had thus, with the others of the 
Social Wiug of the Introspectors, assumed that she meant 
to be as cynical as most modern women in her references 
to love, and she did not object to be regarded in this light; 
and yet here she had, in the presence of Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse, behaved as foolishly as the heroine of a vulgar 
drama, the moment that love was mentioned. 

Whj^ had she done so ? That was the question w'hich 
she found some difficulty in answering. She had never 
before had a consciousness that there was any terror in 
love; why, then, should the sudden thought of it over- 
whelm her as it had undoubtedly done ? 

She came to the conclusion that her nerves were out of 
order. She had been out at social entertainments every 
night for more than a fortnight, and the strain was begin- 
ning to tell upon her. Yes; this, together with the pro- 
posal made to her by Lord Sandyclitfe, and the shame of 
it — which she somehow contrived to minimise in relating 
the whole story to Mrs. Bennett Wyse — must be held ac- 
countable for her sudden lapse into — was it her own 
natural self ? she wondered. 

She thought over Lord Sandyclitfe’s audacious pro- 
posal, made to her on the coach on the w^ay from Rich- 
mond. Perhaps it was the too-tooing of the youth on the 
coach horn which frustrated the proposal, and made it 
appear ludicrous rather than insultive to her ears. Lord 
Sandyclitfe had in the frankest way possible explained to 
her how unfortunate w'as the position which he had occu- 
pied for several years past— his frankness was not equal to 
the strain which would be put upon it had he wished to 
state exactly the number of years. He had been foolish 
enough to marry a woman who had been quite unfitted 
for a man of his temperament. (Here the too-tooing of 
the horn came in very pleasantly.) Yes; it was sad how 
not merely his own life, but the life of his wife, had been 
wrecked through that early mishap. He had, alas! al- 
ways been a firm believer in love— love apart altogether 
from any question of marriage. (Too-too, too-too, too tid 
dle-e-too, went the horn.) It had always been his belief 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


135 


that it was love that made marriage sacred, not marriage 
that sanctified love. He hoped that Miss Liscomh was ad- 
vanced enough to hold that opinion also. {Tiddle-e- 
too, tiddle-e-too, too-too, too-too, too-tiddle.) Ah yes, he 
thought he could not be mistaken in her. It was also 
his firm impression that, for two persons who had long 
ago come to look at one another with absolute indif- 
ference — indifference, mind you, is far more hopeless than 
pronounced enmity — to continue living together is the 
very degradation of love. {Too-te-too, too-te-tiddle.) But 
now the pity of it is that the Church takes nothing into 
account except the marriage ceremony. The Church will 
bless the most ill-assorted union if only the legal forms 
have been complied with. But though the Church holds 
up its hands in pious horror at the idea of two people liv- 
ing together bound only by the bond — the sacred bond he 
held it — of love, happily society was beginning to awake 
to a sense of what was pure in the sight of heaven {tootle- 
e-too, tootle-e-too, tum-te-tootle-e-tiddle ) — that was it — the 
sight of heaven. If all was right in the sight of heaven 
what need any one care about the narrow-minded 
Church ? 

So he went on, and so the horn went on, until Philippa 
had become aware of the extent of his offer. He assured 
her that he loved her so dearly that all his happiness was 
bound up in her reply. He honestly believed that he 
could make her happy, and this was why he had ventured 
to open his heart to her. 

He spoke very neatly. Indeed, she could not imagine 
a man offering with greater delicacy to a young woman 
the grossest insult that can be offered to a woman. And 
she replied to him in the same strain, taking no foolish 
old-fashioned view of the business, but regarding it in a 
modern, liberal spirit. She trusted that she was aware of 
her own unworthiness to occupy the high position to 
which he proposed to raise her— when the first vacancy 
would occur; but while she agreed with all that he had 
said regarding the sacred character of love apart from any 
question of the Church or marriage, she thought that it 


13G 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


would be well for her to look more closely into the matter 
before deciding upon what was undoubtedly a very seri- 
ous step. 

That was the substance of what she had said in repl}' 
to Lord Sandycliffe, and he expressed himself thoroughly 
satisfied with it. He had not expected much, he said: it 
was so difficult to make people see with his eyes, though it 
was a consolation to reflect upon the circumstance that 
people were becoming broader in their views of such mat- 
ters every day. All that he implored Miss Liscomb to 
remember was, that he had laid his devotion at her feet — 
the devotion of a heart which, in the matter of love, felt as 
young as ever, though it had known a good deal of the 
bitterness of life. 

She had not thought during Mrs. Dean’s dinner party, 
or the dances that followed, much about Lord Sandycliffe 
and his enthusiasms and his expectations. The sudden 
appearance of Maurice Wentworth had given her some- 
thing better worth thinking about : but now she was com- 
pelled to recall what Lord Sandycliffe had said to her ; 
and the act of reflecting upon it produced a considerable 
change upon her. She rose with a pale face and clenched 
hands and strode to and fro with a vehemence of passion 
that caused all the Dresden plates to quiver in their cab- 
inets. 

“ And I listened to him — I listened to him ! ” she said 
between her set teeth. “ I did not tell him that I loathed 
him — loathed him ! I do loathe him ! but I loathe myself 
more for having listened to him. How can I hope for the 
love of any man, having degraded myself so ? Why is he 
not here now for me to strike— to kill — to kill — to kill ?” 

She had condemned herself only a short time before 
for having so far forgotten herself as to speak after the 
fashion of the melodrama heroine ; but now she was far 
surpassing her former utterances in the same strain. The 
previous day her soul had not revolted at the thought of 
Lord Sandycliffe’s proposal. It had not seemed outra- 
geously shocking to her then : she had been quite equal 
to the appreciation of its ludicrous aspects, taken in con- 


THE xMAN APPEARS. 


137 


nection with the music of the coach-horn ; and that was a 
sufficient proof that she had not been stung by the gross 
insult of that proposal. 

What was it that had changed her so suddenly — that 
had caused her to have a genuine— not merely a melodra- 
matic-desire to kill the man who had insulted her ? 

This was another problem that she had to sit down and 
face. 

She had become Introspective in spite of herself — in 
spite of the fact that she had enrolled herself among the 
Introspectors. 

She grew more calm as she sat there looking blankly 
at the little pink marks made in each palm by her nails, 
where she had clenched her hands so vehemently ; but 
with her calm there did not come the capacity to solve the 
problem that had suggested itself to her. She wondered 
if the change should be set down to her nerves, and to her 
nerves only. Had the riotous living of the past week 
affected her more deeply than she had fancied ? Had she 
been the victim of an hallucination the previous day ? 
Was she suffering from its effects now ? 

An hour had jmssed before she found herself on her 
feet repeating in a slow whisper, and with a light, that had 
something of terror about it, in her eyes, the words which 
she had said when the early dawn was stealing into her 
room : 

“ Is it possible that I am in love ? ” 

It seemed to her the wildest fancy in the world ; but 
instead of being convinced on this account that she was 
in love, she thought that the logical deduction to be drawn 
from the wildness of the fancy was that her nerves were 
all astray, and that she was a fool. 

She did not seem to think it worth while considering 
if it might not be possible that the fancy was the wildest 
in the world, that her nerves were astray, that she was a 
fool, and that she was in love. The combination of the 
four is by no means outside the range of experience. 

But she had hitherto in her life regarded falling in love 
as an act of volition. She had made up her mind that it 


138 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


would not do for her to fall in love with any of the Baj^- 
mouth youths, though some of them had given her to 
understand that they had fallen in love wuth her— or, at 
any rate, they had asked her to marry them — and she 
had had no difficulty in controlling herself in this 
matter. 

Yes ; she had frequently fancied herself falling in love 
by a series of processes. She would first select the man ; 
and then, before absolutely and irrecoverably falling in 
love with him, she would see how their views agreed on 
many questions upon which she believed their future hap- 
piness would depend ; then she might take a further step 
before committing herself — she had even gone into the 
cookery aspects of this interesting business : it would be 
impossible for her to love any man whose affection would 
require to be stimulated by the realisation of the daintiest 
recipes in the cookery book. She had thus, in her deter- 
mination that Love should be given every chance of liv- 
ing to a ripe old age, and of retaining unimpaired all the 
faculties of his youth, so compassed him about with safe- 
guards that she could not now conceive of the possibility 
of her being such a fool as to open the chamber of her 
heart to him without the consideration of a moment. 

She had heard of Love capturing the citadel of a young 
woman’s heart — that was how the poets put it — without 
the least connivance on her part, with scarcely even the 
least consciousness on her part. 

Great heaven! Was it possible that she was being 
treated in this manner as though she were an ordinary 
young w’oman ? 

She could not believe it. She would have believed 
anything sooner than this. She made a gesture as of 
sweeping something away from before her ; and, so doing, 
she felt that she had swept away the suggestion that it 
was possible for her to have yielded unwittingly to the 
assault of love. 

No ; she was not in love. 

In another second she was standing breathless in the 
middle of the room, for she heard the sounds of laughter, 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


139 


and of a voice which was not the voice of Toramy Traf- 
ford, mingling with the voice of Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

They were coming up the stairs. She was trembling, 
and her face was not merely roseate, it was red. 

“ It is he ! it is he ! it is he ! ” she felt her heart cry out 
in its wild pulsating. 

Sufficient presence of mind came to her at the last 
moment to admit of her snatching up a book and throwing 
herself back among the billowy pillows of the sofa— she 
had not time to take thought for the tint of the one on 
which her head rested. 

Then there entered the room Mrs. Bennett Wyse, fol- 
lowed by Alfred Bentham. 


CHAPTER VII. 

INCLUDES THE SCOWL OF AN INSIGNIFICANT POET. 

“ I HAVE brought a friend of yours back with me to 
lunch, my Phil,” cried Mrs. Bennett AVyse at the moment 
of entering. “We came upon Mr. Bentham as we were 
entering the Park; I induced him to ]3romise to lunch 
with us, and he was at the door as Tommy pulled up. 
Why, what a crowd of nice men you met at that place ! — 
what’s its name ? First, Mr. Wentworth, — did you take 
down his name for the Thirteenth, by the way ? — and now 
Mr. Bentham turns up and claims to have met you.” 

Philippa had risen — she perceived mow, with remorse, 
that her pillow background had been pink, and thus ruin- 
ous to the effect of her hair — and was greeting Alfred 
Bentham while the Queen Poppy had been prattling away. 
She knew that her face was pale now : but was her hand 
still trembling ? 

“ I said we were bound to meet again,” said Alfred. 
She perceived that he was glad to be in her presence : he 
had not the art of his friend Wentworth to give all his 
attention to Mrs. Bennett Wyse, who, having passed the 
10 


140 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


age of tRirty — by a year — and being small as to stature, 
liked a man to give all bis attention to ber. 

‘‘Yes,” said Pbilippa ; ‘‘ we were bound to meet again. 
Tbis is tbe temple where all good people come to worship.” 

“Yes, all good people,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. ‘‘All 
. good people come. They come because they are good, 
and they are good because they come.” 

“ That is the whole analysis of temple-worship,” said 
Alfred. “We go to church because we are good, and we 
are good because we go.” 

“Yes ; but you don't go,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 
“ You know what Dean O’Brien said in this room to one 
of my guests the other day ? ‘ Do you go to church, or 
are you a painter ? ’ It’s a fact, Mr. Bentham.” 

“ Dean O’Brien is an Irishman,” said Mr. Bentham, in 
the tone of a man who has explained everything in one 
word. 

“ He admits it, though he says he can’t tell for the life 
of him how people know that he is one,” said Mrs. Bennett 
W yse. 

“ Is he also an Introspector ? ” asked the man. 

“Undoubtedly he is,” replied the Queen Poppy. 
“Why, it was he who invented our new Entr'' acte.’’^ 

“ A new Entr'' acte f I had no idea that he was a musi- 
cian as well as an Irishman. He has kept the one a 
greater secret than the other.” 

“ Oh, it’s not music — at least, not altogether. We call 
our Entr^ acte the time when we relax.” 

“ Do the Introspectors ever relax ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, yes ; the social wing at least,” said Philippa. 
“ It is not expected that the literary wings need any relaxa- 
tion.” 

“ I think you would be more popular if you had your 
literary wings clipped,’' said Alfred to Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 
“As a social movement Introspection is a pronounced suc- 
cess; as a literary influence it is depressing.” 

“ Between ourselves I have often thought so,” said Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse, in low and confidential tones. “ But, of 
course, we mustn’t say so; above all we mustn’t say so in 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


141 


the presence of Harold Western, who is coming to lunch, 
if he remembers that I asked him.” 

“ He will remember,” said Phil. 

‘‘We can always hope for the best: he may think it 
right to forget,” said the hostess. 

“ And who is Harold Western ? ” asked Alfred. 

“What! you don’t know Harold Western? Oh, you 
must certainly join us,” cried Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ Who is Harold Western, Miss Liscomb ? ” said Alfred. 

“ He is a poet, I believe, — that is, a sort of poet,” replied 
Philippa. 

“ And what is a sort of poet ? ” 

“ A sort of poet is a person who writes a sort of poetry, 
Mr. Bentham.” 

“ A definition is mystification reduced to a science : the 
Introspectors are fine at that,” said Alfred. “And now, 
pray, what is the formula for an Entr' acte % How do you 
relax ? ” 

“Dean O’Brien invented it; it has the Church’s bene- 
diction,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “The thing is very sim- 
ple, but it has its picturesque side. We have a large screen 
placed in front of a portiere between two rooms, then a 
dozen of us get behind the portiere and advance one at a 
time to the screen. It has a number of holes cut in one of 
the wings. One about the size of an egg is for the Ordeal 
by Ear — that’s what the Dean calls it. An ear suddenly 
fills up the hollow from behind the screen, and those of 
the Introspectors who remain in the first room have to 
guess who it is that the ear belongs to. You could have 
no idea of the fun that this is.” 

“ Oh, yes, I dan assure you that I perceive its great pos- 
sibilities,” said Alfred. ‘‘But you said that the opening 
was only the size of an egg. Did you mean an ostrich’s 
egg ? ” 

“ Nonsense! An ordinary hen’s egg.” 

“ That might do for some people; but I know others — 
men — whose ears would take an ostrich size. Well, then, 
what do you do ? ” 

“ Then there is the Ordeal by Mouth,” 




ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“You put your coral lips iu the particular space re- 
served for them ? And then what happens ? ” 

“ Then others guess the owners of the lips.” 

“ I breathe again. And are there any more ordeals ? 
What a good name the Dean hit upon ! ” 

“ Oh yes, we try the chins — they are the most puzzling 
of all. The eyes usually come next. You could have no 
notion how stupid people are in the matter of eyes. Why, 
I have known a girl place an eye opposite the little open- 
ing, and half a dozen people in the room said at once whom 
it belonged to. But when she gave them her other eye to 
be examined, not one of them guessed right. Then, of 
course, we submit our noses, and generally wind up with 
our feet. We have a little open arch at the bottom of the 
screen for the Ordeal by Foot. It’s all very amusing.” 

“ I cannot doubt it. I had no notion that Introspection 
could be made so amusing,” said Alfred. 

“ Oh, it’s not all made up of Problem Souls and their 
excursions,” said Philippa. 

“ But tell us all about yourself, Mr. Bentham,” said the 
hostess. “ If you don’t tell us now we’ll never hear ; for 
when Harold Western arrives all topics are excluded — 
with the exception of Harold Western’s poetry. He takes 
good care of that.” 

“As a topic I am uninteresting even to myself,” said 
Alfred. “ I only returned to town yesterday, to make the 
final arrangements for my show next week.” 

“ Oh, you are having a one-man show, like the rest of 
the world,’’ said Philippa. 

“ Upon my word, I believe that this town is fast becom- 
ing a one-man show,” said Alfred. “ The people are un- 
able to divide their attention. No one ever mentions the 
xVcademy now-a-days ; but if one painter builds up a re- 
niarkable picture and shows it alone, he becomes the 
topic for society. It is the same way with books and 
music.” 

“And horse-racing,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “ Who 
thinks anything of the outsiders in a field ? It is the Fa- 
vourite only that-.attracts attention. You must become the 


THl^] MzVN APPEARS. 


143 


Favourite — the Topic, Mr. Bentham. I have shown you 
how to do it.” 

“ The letter must have gone astray ; it never reached 
me,” said Alfred, laughing. 

‘‘ 1 acted on the principles which you have just said 
society in this town adopts,” cried Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 
“I saw what a good many women see — namely, that a 
woman with a desire to get a hold upon the best sort of 
society that there is, must become the Topic of the hour. 
Some women try the Divorce Court. Now, I admit tliat 
the Divorce Court is a legitimate aspiration for any woman 
who wishes to become the Topic— for she does become the 
Topic — and her portrait is in every newspaper that has any 
self-respect and occasionally the others as well, and the 
best people attend the trial and lunch in the court, while 
the great body of Kodakists have snap shots at her, and the 
lady correspondents describe her toilets from day to day. 
But the next case that is called most likely reduces the as- 
pirant of whom I am speaking to her original level — she 
is fortunate if she does not find herself a step lower down 
in the scale.” 

“ I can quite believe that,” said Alfred. 

'‘So that, you see, the Divorce Court is uncertain. 
Well, some try philanthropy, and that’s disappointing too, 
because, though it gets your name into the newspapers, 
you lose your friends through asking them for subscrip- 
tions. The most noted philanthropists now-a-days do not 
give away any of their own money, they only give away 
other people’s.” 

“ It is somewhat less expensive.” 

Then there are the distressful Irish ; if you patronise 
the distressful Irish in the right way you’re sure to get on. 
Teetotal platform- work offers a photographic career to a 
woman who does not mind being intemperate in her lan- 
guage. And then there is the woman who speaks on pub- 
lic platforms to men only. Horrid creatures ! Now, I 
thought over all these means of becoming the Topic, and 
I would have none of them. It was Sir George Bread- 
more who said to me one day that he wa^iere : ‘ Take my 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


lU 

word for it, Introspection is the coming culte ; ’ I jumped 
at the suggestion, and here we are.” 

“Yes; you are the Topic, Mrs. Bennett Wyse,” said 
Alfred. “ And Miss Liscomb is the High Priestess of the 
cwZ^e.” 

“ And here comes the poet of the ct/ZZc,” said Philippa, 
even before the footman had thrown open the door and 
announced Mr. Harold Western. 

The poet wanted to sit at the feet of Miss Liscomb : but 
Alfred Bentham at present occupied that coveted position, 
and had no intention of vacating it in favour of any 
rhyme-hunter in the world. So Mr. Western looked about 
for a chair, scowling at the insolence of the man who en- 
gaged Miss Liscomb in conversation before she had a 
chance of replying to the compliment of which he, the 
poet, had made a rough draft before going to bed the pre- 
vious night, and which he had touched up during the 
forenoon, breathing on it and giving it a rub with the 
chamois leather, so to speak, before entering the drawing- 
room. 

Alfred Bentham had long ago come to the conclusion 
that Miss Liscomb was the most beautiful woman whom 
he had ever seen. She now seemed to him strangely dif- 
ferent from the girl whom he had seen at Steeplecross, 
forlorn and almost overcome with grief — she was strangely 
different from the girl to whom he had been attracted to 
say good-bye (he thought it would be good-bye) in her 
room in the little inn. Upon the latter occasion she 
seemed to have in a large measure recovered from her 
shock, and was able to talk even cheerfully with him. But 
now she seemed altogether different — it seemed almost 
that she had gained in height, and that her eyes had a 
deeper hue. When he had looked at them before they 
had suggested the blue of the spring sky; but now they 
were full of the violet depth of an Italian vesper sky. 

Yes, she was certainly the most beautiful woman whom 
he had ever seen ; and he found it good for him to be 
seated near her, while the Introspector poet, whose poems 
had never been published, sneered to Mrs. Bennett Wyse 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


145 


at the circulation which had been reached by the works of 
another poet. The poet referred to had, seeking after ma- 
terial gain, issued his first volume of verses at a low price 
and with an Accidental Life Assurance Policy attached to 
every copy, so that, in case of any one being killed while 
reading the verses, his family got £500, or in case of dis- 
ablement, £4 10s. a week was paid to the sufferer who had 
previously purchased a copy of the poems — preserving the 
usual coupon, of course. 

Sir George Breadmore entered while this poet was be- 
ing sneered at, and brutally advised Mr. Western to go 
one better than the materialistic poet; and when Philippa 
begged that Sir George would acquaint Mr. Western with 
the details of how the one better was to be gone, he entered 
upon a circumstantial account of the profits that would be 
forthcoming through issuing a volume in a small size and 
printing the verses upon rice paper perforated close to the 
back, so that each leaf could be used as a cigarette paper. 

While Philippa laughed, Mr. Western scowled, and 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse looked grave. Then Sir George said 
if the poet did not think that plan feasible, he might print 
his works on accordion-pleated paper, so that every leaf 
might be folded easily to make a spill for lighting cigars, 
or — but this required dexterity — a dainty little crimped 
candle-shade. 

“Oh, there’s a great future for English poetry,” said 
Sir George. “People will buy volumes of high class 
poetry greedily, if one goes the right way abolit selling 
them.” 

Then Madame de Ligueres entered, and everybody went 
in to lunch. 


146 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LEAVES PHILIPPA IN TEARS AFTER HEARING A STORY WITH 
WHICH SHE HAD PREVIOUSLY BEEN ACQUAINTED. 

Op course Sir George had heard of Bentham’s show, 
which was to open at a private gallery the following week. 
Some one had met Sir George and had told him all about 
it. The three pictures — or were there four ? — were de- 
signed to illustrate the Last Voyage of Ulysses, v/ere they 
not ? 

“ No ; of Odysseus,’’ Alfred replied. “ I cbuld never 
look for success now-a-days if I were to refer to Ulysses.” 
He went on to explain that he had painted the one that 
contained the sea last. His friend Maurice Wentworth, 
who had a seaside house and owned some mile or so of 
coastway at a place called Triermain Harbour, had put 
him up for three months in order that he might study the 
sea, or such a portion of that immensity as may be seen at 
Triermain Harbour; it was surprising how much study the 
sea required if it was to be properly reproduced. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse said that she was sure of it ; and she 
hoped that Mr. Bentham would allow the asparagus to be 
offered to him again. 

Madame de Ligueres made a grimace, and said that the 
English, being the lineal descendants of pirates, naturally 
took kindly to the sea. But why should they brag about 
their liking for it, she wished to know. Why should 
they invariably refer to it as if it was the family estate of 
Englishmen ? Why should they try to patronise the At- 
lantic Ocean ? 

Sir George said it was an Irishman and not an English- 
man who remarked shortly after the steamer had left 
Queenstown in a gale, that he had heard a lot about the 
Atlantic, but from the way things were being shaken 
about, his opinion was that the Atlantic was greatly out 
of repair. 

Mr. Western said he had, curiously enough, just written 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


U7 

a trifle about tbe ocean — the ocean under the influence of 
a strong gale. Perhaps he might venture to repeat 

“ Mon Dieu ! you forget that we are at lunch,” cried 
Madame de Ligueres. “We are not all on such confiden- 
tial terms as you English with the ocean in a gale.” 

Mr. Western felt that he was being hardly dealt with, 
especially as the conversation went back to Mr. Bentham’s 
coming show; and more especially as Miss Liscomb, who, 
it appeared, had met the painter during the time that he 
was studying the sea effects, showed a great deal of inter- 
est in the series of pictures that were to be exhibited ; and 
hoped, with her eyes turned earnestly upon the painter's 
face, that he would become the Topic by means of the ex- 
hibition. 

Madame de Ligueres said she shouldn’t wonder if the 
English people would take quite so kindly to paintings in 
three volumes as they did to fiction produced in that form 
— the English were so preposterous ! 

Then Sir George told a story of a friend of his who was 
greatly interested in horses, and had successfully disposed 
of some that were suffering from the complaints known 
as “whistling” and “roaring” and “bucking” to unsus- 
pecting Hfiends. This man, had, it appears, still a friend 
left ; he was however, not a horse-buyer but a picture- 
buyer— an equally perilous metier; and this friend hav- 
ing heard where there was a specimen of the early work 
of Mr. James Mac Neill Whistler, was strolling down 
New Bond Street to have a look at it. Meeting the horsey 
man on his way, he stated that he was going to have a 
look at a Whistler, and inquired jocularly if he knew any- 
thing about Whistlers. 

“ ‘ If I know anything in the world it is what consti- 
tutes a genuine whistler,’ replied the man, greatly to the 
astonishment of the first, who had never heard of the in- 
firmity of the horse. 

“ ‘ Come along then,’ said he, ‘ and I’ll get your opinion 
on one that’s in this neighbourhood.’ 

“ Well, they entered New Bond Street, and when they 
came opposite the printseller’s where the picture was 


14:8 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


hanging’, tho leader of the quest said, ^ Here we are. It s 
inside.’ 

“ ‘What’s inside ? ’ asked the other. 

“ ‘ The Whistler,’ said the first. 

“ ‘ It’s the queerest place for a stable I ever knew,’ re- 
marked the horsey man. ‘ Where’s the Whistler here ? ’ 

“ ‘ It’s upstairs,’ said his friend, entering. 

“ ‘ How the mischief did they get it upstairs ? ’ inquired 
the other. 

“ ‘ I suppose they carried it up ; you didn’t fancy it 
could walk, did you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Is it so far gone as that ? It must be a roarer,’ said 
the horsey man, as they went up to the first fioor. 

“ ‘ I don’t know any modern painter named Roarer,’ 
said the other. ‘ But there’s the Whistler, and you may 
give me your opinion on it. He calls it Sauterne in A 
fiat.’ 

“The horsey man turned without a word, strode out 
of the shop; and the two friends have never spoken 
since.” 

That story broke up the party. Alfred Bentham was 
obliged to hurry off to his frame-maker — for he had de- 
signed the frames of his pictures, and they were said to be 
very wonderful. In fact, he assured Philippa confidentially 
— he had had a few confidential moments with her, in 
spite of Sir George’s stories — that he had reckoned more 
upon the effect produced by the frames than upon that 
produced by the pictures. The English nation could 
understand anything of wood and anything with gold 
heaped upon it; but the subtleties of Art Symbolism. . . . 

Sir George went away with him ; and even the Intro- 
spective poet went away at last. 

Madame de Ligueres and Mrs. Bennett Wyse lit their 
cigarettes. 

“Will he make a success with his pictures, do you 
think ? ” asked the latter. 

“ Heaven knows,” said Madame de Ligueres. “ I hope 
with all my soul that he will. Heaven owes him a good 
turn or two.” 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


149 


“ Has he had misfortunes ? ” asked Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 
“ I have never seen him otherwise than well dressed.” 

“ I have,” said Madame de Ligueres. “ He was a strug- 
gler in Paris, aud, in addition, he had an encumbrance.” 

“ Ah, most of them have, in Paris. Should we talk of 
it in the presence of the child ? ” She sent a whiff of blue 
smoke, that somehow seemed to reflect her smile, in the 
direction of Phil. 

“ Alfred Bentham’s encumbrance was not of that type ; 
he was burdened with a mother.” 

“ Oh ! I fancied perhaps, that ” 

“ Nothing of the sort. See, the child is disappointed. 
I saw a look of intense interest in the wonderful depths of 
her eyes just now. Alas ! no ; at the risk of making him 
far less interesting in your eyes, my dear, I must frankly 
state that I never knew of his having any affaire. 

“ Does that mean that he was clever enough to keep it 
under cover ? ” suggested Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ I knew that your natural generosity would cause you 
to take his part,” said the Frenchwoman. “ Never mind, 
I repeat that I never heard of his having one of the usual 
affaires on his hands. It was his mother who took upon 
her the vindication of the freedom of love. She was 
idiot enough to become its exponent. Now we all know 
that the principle of freedom in love is, like our Intro- 
spection, for external application only: it is an academic 
question for platform use exclusively. But she had left 
her respectable wedded mate in South America, and had 
taken another to whom she could not be married. And 
this happened — just think of it — while her son was at the 
University.” 

“ What a curious predilection the man must have had 
who ran away with her !” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “ She 
must have been at least forty.” 

“She was certainly forty,” said Madame de Ligueres; 
“ but who can predict anything in regard to men ? ” 

“ Or women.” 

“Or women. At any rate, the lover died without 
leaving her money enough to keep her for a week ; and 


150 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


then the son supplied his mother with funds out of the 
handsome allowance made to him by his father — the in- 
jured husband. But some kind friend, of course, took 
care that he became acquainted with Alfred's generosity ; 
and the father came to England and made him under- 
stand that if he ever gave the woman a shilling, or even 
went to see her, or permitted her to see him, his allowance 
would be stopped.” 

“ What a wretch ! ” 

‘‘ A wretch indeed ! But the threat had no force with 
the son : he declared that he would continue to see his 
mother, and to provide her with sufficient money to en- 
able her to live. The father returned to Rio in a passion, 
and carried out his threat. With only a trifle that had 
been bequeathed to him by an old clerk in his father's 
office, he came to Paris to study painting ; and he did 
study it, and earned enough money besides to provide for 
his mother during the five years that she lived. Last of 
all the woman died.” 

“They usually die last of all. But, happily, this one 
did better. Her son survived her. And the father — is he 
still alive ? ” 

“ He is still alive ; but he has not communicated with 
Alfred for years. He must be an old man now.” 

“And wealthy?” 

“Wealthy; not, of course, as your husband is wealthy. 
He has not a million or two at his bankers, but he has a 
good many thousands. I heard all about him from the 
Garcias, at whose house in Paris we met Alfred. The 
Garcias’ business house is at Rio also.” 

“ And hitherto I have only looked on Alfred Bentham 
as a fairish painter,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse, after a 
pause. “He is something like a hero, I now find. I 
clearly see that what we must do is to make peace between 
him and his father without delay, lest the old man may 
be ill advised enough to die and leave his money to an 
hospital for yellow fever at Rio de Janeiro. I will make 
it the biLsiness of my life.’' 

“ Then your life shall not have been wasted, ma chere,’’'’ 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


151 


said Madame de Ligueres, lighting her third cigarette. 
“I would not go out to Rio either to-day or to-morrow, if 
I were you, however ; the end of next week will be soon 
enough, and by that time we shall see whether or not 
Alfred is a success as a painter. If his show is a great 
success he will be a made man ; and as he will be in a 
position to snap his fingers at his father, his father will 
most probably be glad to come to terms with him, — the 
fathers always become friendly with those of their sons 
who have shown them that they can live' without their 
assistance.” 

“ Still it would be an awful thing if the old man threw 
away his money upon the alleviation of yellow fever,” 
said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. '‘What do you say, Phil, my 
child ? You have not uttered a word for hours. It is not 
possible that you have been dozing while Felise was giv- 
ing us the interesting account of the early struggles of 
that eminent artist, Alfred Bentham.” 

‘‘I trust that I am too polite to do anything of the 
sort,” said Phil, “ even if the story told to us by Madame 
de Ligueres had been less interesting than it was. Mr. 
Bentham has been treated cruelly ; that is how he has 
been made a great artist.” 

“I should wait until next week if I were you, before 
saying with such decision that he is a great artist,” re- 
marked Felise. “ But I am sure that if I go about the 
town saying that Philippa the Golden ” 

“ Don’t call her that, Felise ; it suggests a hymn tune 
on a. barrel organ — something about Jerusalem,’’ remarked 
the Queen Popp3^ 

“The most fascinating head-dress in any world is 
the aureole,” said Felise ; “ only it loses half its charm 
when we know that it must be worn by a saint. Now, 
our dear Philippa manages to give us just what we 
want in that way : the charm of the aureole without 
the drawback of sainthood. Let me say what I had 
to say.” 

“Which is ” 

“ That if I go about declaring that Phil has pronounced 


152 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Alfred Beutham to be a great painter, his path to great- 
ness will be made smooth for him.” 

Phil shook her head. Her aureole had been very fluffy 
by long contact with the fathomless cushions — to suit all 
complexions — of the Louis Seize couch upon which she lay. 

“There is a road that knows no MacAdam,” said she. 
“The way to lasting fame has never been asphalted or 
wood paved. It is rough and thorny still.” 

“ You have travelled along it on cee springs and india- 
rubber tyres, my dear,” said Felise. “ And it will prove 
lasting fame too, if you only marry a man who is already 
famous. Look at the aureole. Poppy ; does it suggest 
anything of the saint in that disordered condition ? ” 

“It certainly does not,” said Poppy. “I suppose that 
saints are invariably most orderly in their habits, and 
hang up their haloes at the side of their looking-glasses 
eveiy night. Must you go ? ” 

“ I should like to stay here till tea-time,” said Felise. 
“ But, alas ! I have still a duty or two on my list which 
must be attended to. Duty, my dear Poppy, is the black- 
mail extorted by respectability from those who are not 
quite respectable. Those who are quite respectable may 
cast duty behind them with a laugh, and yet suffer 
nothing.” 

“You are becoming trite, Felise,” said Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse. “ Every one knows that while one man may steal 
the Derby favourite, another must not be seen looking 
over the gate to a knacker’s yard. Au revoir I ” 

The dainty little Frenchwoman, w^ho was devoted to 
her English husband, and her very English children, and 
who yet enjoyed herself thoroughly every day of her life, 
and made light of the grey hairs which, contrary to the 
usual way with grey hair, were becoming more numerous 
every day on her shapely head, tripped away, leaving Mrs. 
Bennett to take her afternoon nap ; and Philippa Liscomb 
to sit staring at a piece of paper w^hich she had taken from 
a drawer in her room — a paper containing some excellent 
scrivening work, and a good deal about “ Alfred Bentham,” 
and “the aforesaid Alfred Bentham.” 


THE MAN APTEARS. 


153 


As she stared at that paper the tears came into her eyes 
and fell unheeded upon the front of her black dress. 

“Poor fellow — poor fellow!” she said. “He deserves 
all the good that could come to him. I shall give him all 
that he should have. I shall tell him that his father died 
with his name on his lips. And my love . . . would my 
love be of any value to him ? . . .” She sat there for 
some minutes still; then she suddenly sprang to her feet, 
drew her hands across her eyes, after flinging the docu- 
ment on her dressing-table. “ Why was I such a fool as 
to let that thing into my hands?” she cried. “It was 
done in a moment — he thrust it into my hand ; and there 
it is now, and I am bound to keep it and give it to him, and 
confess — confess all.” 

The thought was a humiliating one, until it occurred 
to her to consider what it was that she had to confess. 
Why, she had only to confess that she had soothed the last 
hours of an old man and accepted from him a charge which 
she meant to hold sacred. Her confession would amount 
to very little more than this — and then all would be well. 

She would have felt much more at ease in thinking of 
the future if she had not suddenly, and without any rea- 
son, begun to wonder if there was any chance of Maurice 
Wentworth's being at the dinner party to which she was 
going with Mrs. Bennett Wyse that night. 


CHAPTER IX. 

RECORDS ANOTHER PRAYER WHICH CAME FROM PHILIPPA’S 
HEART. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse never omitted saying her prayers 
—in public. When her friend Madame de Ligueres had 
talked about blackmail in connection with duty — the 
words have just been recorded — Mrs. Bennett W^yse at the 
same moment remembered how her friend had upon a 
previous occasion remarked that prayers were the black- 


154 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


mail extorted by heaven from mortals for their protection. 
She meant, of course, that people would not say their 
prayers if they did not think it unlucky to omit them. 

“ It is best to have heaven on your side if you possibly 
can manage it,” she had said shrewdly. ‘‘ But the alliance 
may be bought too dearly. ” 

Every one knew that she meant simply that people 
should not trust to be fortunate in life by attending only 
to the outward forms of religion. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse, notwithstanding, went regularly 
to church, taking Philippa with her. They went together 
on the Sunday following the little casual lunch-party. 

The clergyman was not one of those who get rid of 
their Christianity to make way for their theology. He 
knew the general character of his congregation, and he 
was careful never to say anything to offend them. His 
sermons were greatly admired on account of the excellent 
moral tone that pervaded them; any reproofs which they 
contained were regarded by his hearers as levelled against 
a certain class of people not present. He had once had an 
earnest young curate who read the prayers with a vehe- 
mence that bordered upon rudeness ; but he was soon got 
rid of, and it was reported that he had sunk so low as the 
Little Bethel afterwards. He would be all right there, 
people said. One may pray as vehemently as one pleases 
in Little Bethel. 

The rector understood his congregation too well to in- 
troduce theology into his sermons. That is why they 
were so greatly liked. People said that though they were 
not, perhaps, brilliant, yet they were eminently safe. 
And then one might take one’s youngest little girl to hear 
his sermons, for not one improper word had he ever been 
known to employ in the pulpit. 

This was a great comfort, ladies said : clergymen are 
becoming so outspoken in these days. 

He was now reading out of the Commandments. Some 
of them he read as if it were a painful duty for him to be 
compelled to do so : he seemed to be asking his friends if 
it was not quite too bad that he, of all men in the world, 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


155 


should have to deliver commauds that every one knew 
were quite unnecessary to such a congregation. Towards 
the close of the Decalogue he assumed the air of one 
daintily bantering his well-dressed hearers : could they 
not see that the whole thing was ironical, he seemed to 
ask; but when he reached the long injunction against 
coveting, he had the manner of a man who washes his 
hands clear of all responsibility; he hoped that no one 
would do him the injustice to fancy that he was person- 
ally responsible for this sad business. If it rested with 
himself — well, he could not doubt that his friends would 
give him credit for having some taste and discrimina- 
tion. 

Maurice Wentworth was sitting at the other side of the 
church. Of that fact Philippa Liscomb became suddenly 
conscious before the imploration of the choir, “that the 
laws might be written in their hearts,” had ceased to wail 
around the arches of the chancel. 

She had been startled when, on lifting up her eyes, 
she had seen him there — so startled that she felt the flush 
which came to her face burn upon her cheeks and fore- 
head — she felt it upon her shoulders and neck — a flush 
that she was as powerless to control as though she were a 
school-girl again — nay, she had never been prone to blush 
when a school-girl. It only lasted for a moment ; but it 
had the same effect upon her as the light which came 
from heaven had upon St. Paul (then Saul and no saint) 
when he was on his way to Damascus — an episode just 
recorded by the reader of the Lessons, with decorous 
monotony. 

She fell to the earth before that roseate light, so to 
speak. The truth was revealed to her in a moment. The 
high heavens -were opened above her. She knew all. 
She did not make the pretence of crying, “ Who art thou. 
Lord ?” 

The next time she bowed her head it was upon her 
hands passionately clasped; and her soul cried out the 
first prayer of her life : 

“ Give him to me, 0 God ! Give him to me, 0 God ! ” 
11 


156 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


She never glanced again across the chancel to where 
he was sitting. But she seemed to have a subtle instinct 
of every time he looked at her. She felt his eyes upon 
her, and she wondered what his prayer had been. 

He overtook her and Mrs. Bennett Wyse. Another 
man had done so before him, and was walking alongside 
the elder lady, so that Maurice and Philippa were left 
together. 

No, he was afraid, he said, that he could not be ranked 
with the most regular of church-goers. He thought it 
was a habit that most men fell out of in town ; of course, 
it was different in the country — there one was expected to 
go in order to give the other people a lead over, if the ex- 
pression would be allowed to pass without being thought 
irreverent. 

“You look on yourself as a sort of bell-wether at 
Steeplecross ? ” she said smiling. 

“ No, I don’t look on myself in that light ; but our pas - 
tor does,” he replied. “ He says it is good for the others, 
and I must be content to make some little sacrifice for 
their sake.” 

“ And for his,” added Phil. 

“ No doubt— only he didn’t say it. Anyhow, it’s no 
sacrifice. It’s good for me. I sit in a loose box sort of 
pew — I can never associate devotion with varnish and 
pitch pine — and keep my eyes fixed upon the marble tablet 
that commemorates the births and deaths of my father 
and mother, my grandfather and grandmother, and so 
back to the date at which the first name was carved be- 
neath a figure which is supposed to do duty for that of a 
weeping angel, though I have never been able to get rid 
of my earliest idea of it, which was that the 'figure was 
meant to represent a cook of ours whose discharge had 
followed close upon the disappearance of some bottles of 
sherry. I suppose I must have been six years old at that 
time ; but I recollect distinctly that the somewhat droop- 
ing pose she assumed in tearfullj^ declaring her innocence 
was precisely that of the figure lounging over the mural 
tablet.” 


THE MAN APPEARS. 157 

“ Therefore you feel that it is good for you to gaze upon 
the tablet ? ” 

“ Not exactly. What was in my mind when I began to 
speak of the benefit it was to me was the reflection that in 
some years my name will be on that tablet ; and hence 
that — well, that all is vanity.” 

“ And it is good for one to dwell upon that ? ” 

“ It is proper to assume so much, at any rate, when one 
is returning from church, where people are well dressed. 
Was not that your feeling to-day ? ” 

“ Not for a moment. My feeling was that this is a 
world to love, and that I love it.” 

“ Good heavens ! you startle me. Miss Liscomb,” said 
he ; and he certainly did seem to, be surprised. “ That is 
not what one should feel on coming away from a church 
in which a sermon has been preached on the most approved 
principles.” 

“ I daresay that it is not,” said she. “ But I wonder if 
any sermon now-a-days produces a lasting impression upon 
a fully grown man or woman ? ” 

“ A sermon is not designed to produce an impression 
that will last longer than a week,” said he. “ I wonder 
what was that one about that we have just been listening 
to.” 

“ I heard nothing of it,” said she. 

“ You were too full of that reflection of yours regard- 
ing the pleasantness of the world ? ” 

“ I was. I think that the world is extremely well 
adapted for men and women, if the men and women 
could only see it, — if they would only make the most 
of it.” 

“ You are determined to make the most of it. Miss 
Liscomb ? ” 

“ I am fully determined, Mr. Wentworth. I w^as sur- 
rounded by Methodism and every other form of unloveli- 
ness until quite recently ; and I was evermore longing for 
my hour of freedom — for my hour of life — to come. Well, 
it came, and — well, I live.” 

“O queen, live for ever!” he said. “May nothing 


158 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


ever occur to spoil your scheme of life until it has been 
lived out ! That is my prayer for you — an out-of-church 
prayer. ” 

“Thank you for it,” she said. “And you, Mr. Went- 
worth, — did your heart echo the Vanitas Vanitatum of 
the preacher on this morning when the sunshine was forc- 
ing its way through the gorgeous garments of the figures 
on the windows, until all the church was filled with the 
glory of saints and angels ? ” 

There was a long pause before he said, 

“ I never felt more strongly than I did to-day the bit- 
terness of living — the bitter tricks that are played upon us 
by fate. I never felt so strongly before how wrong every- 
thing is.” 

She was startled by the tone of conviction in his speak- 
ing of those words in a low voice. 

“ I am sorry for you,” she said. “ But are you sure 
that you and the Preacher are right ? Great heavens, Mr. 
Wentworth, is there nothing loveh^ in the things that we 
have at our command in this world ? The faces of our 
friends, the devotion of friendship, the joy of scenery, the 
changing of the winter to the spring, the song of the sky- 
lark, the delight of poetry, of fiction, of wearing beautiful 
fabrics, the grace of art, the glory of love— these things — 
do they mean nothing ? ” 

“ Without the glory of love all the rest are vanity,” 
said he. 

“ Ah, but with it ? ” 

“ With it, none of the others signify much. But if it 
does not come to you, what then ? ” 

“ I cannot say what then. You cannot explain to a 
child what death means. I cannot say what shall come if 
love tarries.” 

“ Your heart is full of hope ? ” 

“ Full-full-full.” 

“ And I have none. God only knows which of us is 
the more to be pitied. Here we part.” 

They had reached Battenberg Gardens. Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse and her companion waited for them to come up, 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


159 


and then the Queen Poppy begged Mr. Wentworth to 
have lunch at her house. 

“ Ever so many people drop in on Sunday,” she said. 
“ Introspectors and other interesting people, — if any re- 
main outside the ranks of the Introspectors. ” 

But Maurice Wentworth would not allow himself to 
be persuaded. He was, he said, going with his friend 
Alfred Bentham to spend the day with a man who had a 
cottage on the side of a Surrey hill — six miles from a rail- 
way station. And so they parted. 

“Damon and — and — now what was the name of the 
other — not Pythagoras ?” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ Certainly not Pythagoras,” said Philippa. 

“ Never mind, I say that Damon and the other could 
not possibly have been more devoted to each other than 
Wentworth and Bentham. I wonder to what extent it 
will reach. What is the average duration of the earnest 
friendship of one man for another. General ? ” 

(The man who had walked from church with Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse was General Barrington.) 

“ The average duration of the friendship of two men ?” 
said he, thoughtfully. “You must give me more data to 
go upon in making the calculation. You cannot tell the 
area of a triangle if you only know the length of one of its 
sides.'^ 

(General Barrington had been in the Engineers.) 

“ What other data do you require ? ” 

“Well, not perhaps data, only a date.” 

“ A date ? ” 

“Yes; the date of the first appearance of the Woman,” 
said the General. 

“ Oh, we had better go in to lunch,” said Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse. 

They went in to lunch. 


1(30 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER X. 

NOTICES THE MOOD OF A MAN OF MANY EXPERIENCES. 

Maurice Wentworth and Alfred Bentham were lying 
in hammock chairs under a cherry-tree on the little patch 
of lawn in front of the Surrey cottage of their friend — one 
George Mannington, who had made a reputation among 
his circle as a traveller, though he was careful to exi)lain 
to all that he had never been a traveller, but, on the con- 
trary, a man of rest from his youth. He had always been 
on the look out for a place of rest, he said ; but the world 
was becoming so crowded, the quest for rest was growing 
more arduous every day. Adventures were, of course, for 
the adventurous ; but it seemed that there was to be no 
rest for the restful, he was accustomed to complain. 

He had been told that along the shore of the Bosphorus 
he would be able to enjoy complete repose. Repose he had 
thought impossible except within view of beautiful scenery. 
He found a villa on the Bosphorus delightfill for a year ; 
but then an element of unrest turned up in the form of an 
infatuated woman who had forsaken whatever Mohamme- 
danism she had ever possessed for what she imagined was 
Christianity, inasmuch as it did not recognise the Harem. 
He had fled from her, and fancied that he could have a 
quiet time in Thibet. He spent a year or so in the search ; 
but it seemed that Thibet offered no more chance of repose 
than the Strand at Charing Cross. He had then estab- 
lished himself on a part of the coast of Queensland, some 
hundreds of miles from any road and any port, and there 
he had lived for a year ; but the blacks had suddenly in- 
terfered with his ideas of complete tranquillity, and he had 
fled to Samoa. He remained there just three days-long 
enough to convince him that the Samoans were as restless 
a nation as the Irish. It was, he declared, in the centre of 
New York City that he had found rest. He had hired a 
flat pretty high up in a building the elevator of which 
would not work; and as no one in the city had ever been 


TOE MAN APPEARS. 


161 


known to climb upstairs, he had had a week’s rest. But 
then the elevator had been repaired, and he had taken the 
first steamship to England. He had stumbled across the 
Surrey cottage, and he believed that he had found repose 
at last. 

It may, however, be mentioned incidentally that, be- 
fore a month had passed, the young woman who had been 
the origin of his wanderings, knocked at his door. . . . 

She had become a widow. ... « 

Pipes were alight on the little strip of lawn and their 
smoke floated like a gossamer net above the cherry-tree. 
Tumblers' with straws were on the grass, and far away 
there was the twinkle of sunlight on a bend of the river. 
Only at rare and unaccountable intervals did the sound 
of the tinkle of a church bell reach the three friends from 
the depths of some valley, not within their scheme of to- 
pography. 

“ I fancy that you have reached your halting-place at 
last,” said Maurice to the rest-seeker, after a silence of 
about half an hour’s duration — such a silence as cements 
friendships. 

“ I’m beginning to feel that, Maurice,” said the host. 
“ I believe that my nerves will sprout again. If only a 
sufficient number of people come to see me and stay to 
dinner, I believe that I’ll do very well until some rascally 
railway company finds out the place and builds a station 
and a palatial hotel at the foot of the garden, advertising 
daily excursions, and Saturday to Monday tickets.” 

“ There’s nothing so delightful as one of these retired 
nooks,” said Alfred. “If only enough people came down 
to them they are the pleasantest places on earth.” 

“I wonder if there’s anything remaining of that hut of 
yours on the Queensland side of the Barrier Reef ? ” said 
Maurice, after another long silence. 

“ Hut ? Hut yourself ! ” said the rest-seeker. “ It’s a 
house, let me tell you — a house built of stones with my 
own hands— a house with a kitchen and a verandah.” 

“ And an ample sea-view,” said Alfred. 

“ Good Lord ! Ample sea-view ? Ample ? If it wasn’t 


102 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


for tlie Barrier Reef you could see across the Pacific Ocean 
to the coast of South America from that verandah. You 
can see the coral in the bay shining through ten fathoms of 
water. Oysters by the million along the shore, bananas 
by the billion in a bit of a strip of garden about the size of 
Scotland at the back of the house.” 

“ Do you want to sell the estate and mansion ? ” said 
Maurice. “ If you do, I’d feel very much inclined to treat 
with you for it. ” 

“What ? You feel that you’d iike a rest too ? Who 
the mischief is the girl ? ” cried Mannington. 

“ The girl ? ” said Maurice, very interrogatively. 

“ Ay, the girl, my friend,” said Mannington. “ Don’t 
you fancy that I know all the symptoms of the man who 
wants to clear off to some place where he need see no 
one ? I know every phase of the disorder. Who is the 
girl ? ” 

“ God knows who the girl is, George,” said Maurice. 

“ I’m glad to hear that ; it’s the devil that usually 
knows most about her,” muttered the host, whose wounds 
broke out afresh at intervals. “ ’Twas the devil in my 
case.” 

“ P’shut ! ” said Alfred, yawning, and stretching him- 
self preparatory to letting himself roll out of the low 
hammock chair. “ P’shut ! Don’t let us get into the 
Monarch Cambyses’ vein. Don’t draw him out again, 
Maurice, on that Queensland escapade of his, or he’ll 
make us late for the train.” He turned to Maurice 
as he spoke ; and then he made an inquiry for some to- 
bacco. 

None having been brought out, he went into the cot- 
tage for it. 

The moment he disappeared, Mannington leaned over 
his chair, saying to Maurice in a low confidential tone ; 

“ Alfred is under the impression that you were merely 
tr3dng to get me to tell you an old story again, so that you 
might both have a laugh about me going back. I know 
better, old boy. There was a look upon your face — I saw 
it. If there was a boat starting for that nook of mine at 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


163 


Queensland you’d take it to-night, I believe. There’s a 
girl in the case as certain as I sit here. Has she been un- 
kind to you or — too kind ? ” 

“Too kind— too kind,” said Maurice. “I want to go 
away and never see her again. And I will too — I will, if 
I’m only strong enough.” 

“I knew where your pain was located,” remarked 
Mannington. “ Keep up your heart : if I remember right, 
you had something of this sort on hand a few years 
ago.” 

“ Not like this — not like this — nothing was ever like 
this,” said Maurice. 

“ Don’t flatter yourself that you’ve been unique,” said 
Mannington. “All the changes i 30 ssible to be rung upon 
this theme were rung before the dawn of civilisation. 
Best run away.” 

“I think I’m brave enough to do even that,” said 
Maurice. “And yet — and yet — why should I run away ? 
She doesn’t care the flutter of a farthing whether I go or 
stay.” 

“ Oh, doesn’t she, ray hearty ? If you think that you’d 
best stay.” 

At this point Alfred Benthara returned to his chair, 
having found the jar of tobacco, and refilled his pipe. It 
could not be expected that he, being only a painter, should 
possess the same capacity as Mr. Mannington for arriving 
at conclusions through the observation of a man’s features, 
or from noticing a delicate change in the inflections of a 
man’s voice. So Mr. Mannington flung to Maurice a look 
of great meaning; and nothing more was said as to the 
relative bravery — leaving wisdom out of the question alto- 
gether, as it had originally been omitted from Maurice’s 
calculations — of flying and of standing his ground. The 
exchange of remarks among the three men could not be 
said to reach even the lowest conversational level. But it 
might be fair to assume from the earnestness of their 
smoking that a good deal of hard thinking was being 
gone through beneath the fantastic boughs of the cherry- 
tree. 


164 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


The six-mile drive to the railway station under the 
hedge-rows heavy with leafage, did not seem to call for 
much remark; but when Bentham and Wentworth found 
themselves alone in the railway carriage on their way to 
town, they began to talk. It was Maurice who first opened 
his mouth. 

“ I’ve been thinking about you all day, Alf,” said he. 
“ I’ve been thinking that by next Sunday you’ll have made 
your hit. I’m never very sanguine as to the readiness of 
the people of this country, or, for that matter, any other 
country, to appreciate a good picture unless it’s a couple of 
hundred years old, and has a first-rate name painted in 
black on a gold label on the frame ; hut I’ve a notion that 
your show will grapple them to you with hooks of steel. 
Of course, your ‘ Morsel for a Monarch ’ showed them 
what you could do, and you sold it, — which was greatly to 
the purpose : but you know as well as I do that there was 
nothing in the ‘Morsel’ worth placing alongside one of 
the three in ‘ Odysseus.’ Isn’t that a fact ? ” 

“ It is a fact. I’d like you to tell me what you meant 
by that remark of yours about going away, and— and— the 
girl,” said Alfred. 

“We had much better talk about your pictures: they, 
at least, are flesh and blood,” said Maurice. 

“ And the girl ? ” 

“ Is something less substantial than a dream.” 

“ Is it from a dream that you would run away ? ” 

“From nothing more real, I give you my word — a 
dream — an idea — a fear, at the worst.” 

He threw his head back suddenly, and laughed. 

There was a long pause before Alfred bent forward, 
saying, 

“Did you tell me that you went to church this morn- 
ing ? ” 

“ I believe I did,” said Maurice. “ Has there been any- 
thing in my conduct since that might lead you to suspect 
that I was deceiving you ? ” 

“I should like to know what is the name of the 
church.” 


TnK MAN APPEARS. 


lf)5 

“ I believe that it’s dedicated to Saint James the Less— 
make no mistake, the Less; I wouldn’t have you do the 
saint an injustice because he happens to be a little one.” 

“ And you saw Miss Liscomb there ? ” 

“ Not only was I so fortunate, but I overtook her and 
her friend, Mrs. Bennett Wyse, as they were leaving the 
sacred fane, and walked with them to the turning leading 
into Batten berg Gardens.” 

There was another pause as the train ran alongside a 
station and received a freight of excursionists, who had 
spent a happy Sunday, far away from the smoke of Lon- 
don, in the back parlour of a country public-house. 

“ I pity you with all my heart,” said Alfred, as soon as 
the train had begun to put on speed again. 

“ Pity ? There’s nothing to pity— no one to pity,” cried 
Maurice, with another laugh. “ Hang it all, man ! haven’t 
I the full use of my eyesight ? Can’t I see where I’m 
going ? ” 

“You can — you can,” said Alfred. “That is why you 
talked about the Queensland hut. You have seen where 
you are going. Why shouldn’t we make a move some- 
where, you and I ? ” 

“Why shouldn’t we ? or, for that matter, w'hy should 
we ? ” said Maurice. “ My dear Alf, don’t take up an idea 
and refuse to let it go until it drops in tatters at your feet. 
I’m not altogether a fool, nor am I a schoolboy to be car- 
ried away by every strange face that comes before me.” 

“ I know that,” said Alfred. “ If you were, I’d join 
with you in saying, ‘ Why should we clear off ? ’ It’s just 
because ” 

“ Oh, don’t worry with arguments and the solution of 
soul problems,” cried Maurice. “ Leave that sort of thing 
for the Introspectors. My soul is my own, and I don’t 
want it meddled with. It’s a good every-day sort of a soul, 
done in water colours, and I get on very well with it. It 
will do me my time, even though the pigments may fade 
a trifle.” 

Alfred Bentham was silent for the remainder of the 
journey. 


166 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XI. 

TENDS TO A REFLECTION ON THE EASE WITH WHICH AN 

EPISODE OP THE PAST MAY BECOME AN INFLUENCE IN 

THE PRESENT. 

Ip Alfred did not become the absolute Topic of the 
town so soon as his three jdctures were exhibited, he cer- 
tainly took a very respectable place in the struggle for the 
position. He divided the prize with the young lady in 
the music halls who had just brought to perfection a very 
successful step-dance, in the course of which she demol- 
ished, by her adroitness in kicking, a ten-light glass chan- 
delier suspended seven feet above the stage, chanting all 
the time the mystic burden of her song. The mystic song 
and her upward kicks, which tended to dispel a good deal 
of mystery, gave the young lady an amount of prominence 
beyond what could be attained by the exhibition of the 
finest works of art ever brought together. Still it could 
not be denied that Alfred Bentham’s pictures took a very 
respectable place among the Topics of the hour, after the 
kick had been discussed, especially when it became known 
that the three pictures wei’e sold. This is the guarantee 
of merit, the validity of which is admitted by the most 
fastidious of critics. 

Whatever is salable is right in England, as well as in 
other semi-civilised countries; and, indeed, a better all- 
round test of value has not yet been discovered. 

Alfred’s friend, Madame de Ligueres, was enthusiastic 
over his success. It was not like that of so many pictures, 
a succes scandale — there was nothing that was not strictly 
proper about the figures she said; and the very frankness 
of the nudities of some of the Greek maidens should surely 
disarm municipal criticism. The blush of shame would 
not mantle the cheek of the most sensitive Chief Constable 
in Great Britain while standing before the pictures; and 
Chief Constable’s art is that alone which the great body of 
the public can admire. Yes, Madame de Ligueres said. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


167 


the pictures were a signal triumph, added to the many 
triumphs of the French School. 

‘‘ I claim him in the name of France ! ” she cried in the 
drawing-room of Mrs. Bennett Wyse; and she assumed 
the striking attitude of La France— the French Mother on 
a monument commemorative of the Victories of France. 
“ Yes, I take Alfred Bentham to my heart ” — here she 
made a motion suggesting that she had encompassed him, 
— “ I present him, in the name of France, with a chaplet.” 
Here she assumed the attitude of making a presentation 
to a kneeling figure; while some unimaginative people, 
lounging over the backs of sofas and screens and grand 
pianos, looked as if they would be more inclined to enter 
into the spirit of the scene if they only knew what a 
chaplet was. They had heard of presentations of marble 
clocks and purses of sovereigns, and these they could 
understand, — but what was a chaplet ? 

But while Madame de Ligueres was busy annexing him 
in the name of La France, the Mother of all the Arts, the 
London critics were claiming him as the most robust 
representative of the true English School — the Modern 
English School, they added, lest they should be taken up 
wrongly. Yes; his latest picture afforded abundant evi- 
dence of the vitality of the Modern English School, they 
declared. 

Then Mrs. Bennett Wyse, who had entertained Alfred 
Bentham at lunch once, to dinner once, and at her “ At 
Home ” on the Thirteenth, said that his success was prac- 
tically a great victory for the Introspectors. Of course he 
had not yet actually become one of them ; but a'll his sym- 
pathies were with them — had he not lunched and dined at 
her house ?— and his pictures were therefore the artistic 
first-fruits in Art of the great Introspective Movement. 

As a matter of fact some newspapers whose critics 
knew that Alfred Bentham had been at Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse’s “ At Home,” did not hesitate to declare that the 
success of his exhibition went a long way to show that 
Introspection was far more than a mere society craze. 
The whole scheme of colour manifested in his pictures 


168 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


was Introspective in the amjjlest degree. And thus the 
Introspectors gained fresli ground in society. Poet West- 
ern endeavoured to cling on to Alfred Bentham’s coat- 
tails, so to speak, by publishing a triptych cf sonnets on 
the pictures, doing his best to wrap them in mystery and 
unmeaningness. He trusted to swing into fame holding 
on to Alfred’s skirts. 

Now there was a certain man whose name was Eleazar 
Y. Wicks, just come from Eleazarville, Pa., U. S. A., to 
reside in England. He had made some millions of dollars 
at Eleazarville, owing to his skill in discovering a spring 
of natural masticating gum in that region. The article 
being one of universal consumption in the States, he had 
only to fill his casks at the spring and get a branch of the 
great Trunk Railway brought into his back yard with a 
sutficient number of waggons to carry his casks North and 
South for the joy of all the population, plain and coloured, 
throughout the land. The flavour of his gum was so ex- 
quisite it was impossible for any but the most experienced 
palate to discriminate between it and the finest turpentine ; 
so that Wicks’s Natural Chewing Gum became a staple 
article of commerce, and the recommendation to try it 
was made on every vacant space in the United States, from 
the picturesque canons of the distant West to walls of the 
Mammoth Cave of Kentucky. 

When he had made some millions of dollars and in- 
vested them — of course in English securities — Mr. Wicks 
crossed the Atlantic, and having bought the finest shoot- 
ing in the Highlands, and the castle and estate of a bank- 
rupt marquis in the Midlands, set about the work of im- 
proving the castle off the face of the earth, by the aid of 
an accomplished architect — who called the work restora- 
tion. When this was done he began furnishing the new 
wings. He was giving all his attention to this interesting 
duty, occupying only one room in the building, when one 
morning he read in his newspaper an account of the three- 
picture show of Mr. Alfred Bentham. On finishing his 
breakfast, he walked to the village telegraph office — he 
heard that English landlords walked a good deal— and 


THE MAN APPEARS. 109 

sent the following despatch to the Gallery where the pic- 
tures were on view : 

“ State dimensions of each frame in ‘ Last Voyage of 
Odysseus.'' Reply paid. WfcArs.” 

When he got the reply in the course of a couple of 
hours, Mr. Wicks took a two-foot rule and ascertained the 
dimensions of three panels in the wall of the new dining- 
hall which he had built, and then despatched another tele- 
gram : 

“ Will take the lot. Wicks. 

Thus it was that the three pictures were sold ; and am- 
ple proof was afforded, if any were needed, that a sincere 
appreciation of good art still existed in England. 

Thus it was that Alfred Bentham became possessed of 
the sum of two thousand four hundred guineas all at once. 

It was immediately after this incident, which had a 
certain amount of interest for him, that he gave his fa- 
mous little supper at the restaurant on the Victoria Em- 
bankment, inviting to it about thirty of his friends. The 
supper took place in the Greek Room of the Restaurant ; 
and, at the suggestion of Mrs. Bennett Wyse, the table 
decorations were of the severest Greek form, especially the 
candelabra. The sauce-boats were in the form of ancient 
triremes, and the decanters — some of them — contained 
Greek wine, for those who liked such a beverage. Each 
guest received a dainty little menu-card, painted by the 
host himself, with a scene from the story of Odysseus; 
and no two designs were alike. 

But the most delightful surprise of the night was the 
appearance of the ladies of the party in Greek dress. Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse disclaimed having originated this charm- 
ing idea : it was to be attributed, she said, to the graceful 
imagination of Miss Liscomb. Some persons (female) 
who heard this said that Miss Liscomb was very well 
aware what costume suited herself ; but that she had gone 
a little too far when she had induced small women like 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse and Lady Annadale to put on a dress 
that must only have made them look ridiculous. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that this remark came 


17 u 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


from persons who had not received invitations to the sup- 
per ; for it would have been impossible for any one who 
had been present to deny that a charming effect was pro- 
duced by the Greek costume. But then, as Madame de 
Ligueres said, when she heard the spiteful remark, there 
are some people who assume that every costume that is 
out of the common is unbecoming. 

“Just as there are some people who assume that the 
devil has got a hold of all the pretty women,” she added 
to Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

Madame de Ligueres had appeared simply dressed after 
the well-known portrait of Madame Recamier. She was 
delightfully cool, she said, and no one questioned the ac- 
curacy of her statement. 

Only one toast was given by Alfred Bentham. It was, 
“English Art and American Buyers,” and it w’as spoken 
to in half-a-dozen pleasant sentences by Mr. Eleazar Wicks, 
in the course of v;hich he said he believed that there was 
a great future for English painting, if the painters would 
only be discreet enough to make their pictures of the suit- 
able dimensions for the wall panels of the purchasers. 

It was close upon two o’clock in the morning when 
this pleasant little gathering dispersed. Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse had gone out upon the balcony overlooking the 
gardens of the Embankment ; and she said that, with the 
pearly dawm reflected in the river and making a delicately 
luminous background for the Shot Tower and other ob- 
jects on the Surrey side, one could fancy oneself in Venice 
looking out over the Lagoon. 

She made her remark to Alfred Bentham. 

“You have seen Venice, and so have I,” said he with a 
laugh. “We shall get the opinion of an unprejudiced 
person as to the elements of the Thames picture.” 

Philippa was standing about the centre of the room 
talking to Maurice Wentworth. He had just said to her : 

“I have noticed several times to-night an expression 
come over the face of our host for which I tried my best 
to account. Although I know him so well, I did not suc- 
ceed ; so I asked him what it meant.” 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


171 


“ And he told you ? ” 

“Yes ; he said, ‘the only drawback is the absence of 
my father.’ ” 

Philippa gave a little start, and looked at Maurice. 

“ Go to the window and tell me all that you see out- 
side. ” 

Tlie low voice sounded just behind her. It Avas the 
voice of the man at whose death-bed she had sat, and it 
repeated the very words that he had spoken. 

She gave a cry of terror ; and when the other guests 
in the room started and looked in her direction, they saw 
her clutching with both hands at the arm which Maurice 
Wentworth was about to put about her as if to save her 
from falling. Her head was bending forward, and she 
was staring with eyes wide with terror into Alfred Ben- 
tham’s face. 

There was no movement in the room for perhaps five 
seconds. Every one seemed waiting for an explanation. 

An explanation was soon forthcoming. 

“ For heaven’s sake, Philippa, practise your tableaux 
without incidental music,” cried Madame de Ligiieres. 
“ Mon Dieu ! I never got such a shock ! Think of the 
nerves of others, my child, if you have none yourself.” 

“ Oh, a pose said Lady Annadale. 

“ Cannot you see ? ” said Madame de Ligueres. “ A 
suggestion for our host’s new picture, ‘ Andromache re- 
ceiving the tidings of the Death of Hector ’—that would 
do very Avell.” 

“ But why the shriek ? Are you going to paint the 
shriek also, Mr. Bentham ? ” asked Lady Annadale. 

‘‘ That is the way Avith our dear Phil,” said Mrs. Ben- 
nett Wyse. “ She is so desperately thorough : she never 
does things by halves.” 

“Thank you A^ery much, Miss Liscomb,” said Alfred. 
“ I think I can manage the picture. You haA^e taught me 
more in a moment than I could learn from a century of 
models.” 

She had once again become almost self-possessed. She 
drew a long breath, and gave a little laugh. 

13 


172 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “ Oh, so sorry! but I — 
I — well, I couldn’t resist the temptation. Pray forgive 
me, and I promise you that it shall never occur again.” 

“ Madam,” said Mr. Wicks, “ if what you desiderate at 
the present moment is a first class theatre in this town I’ll 
hire one for you. Maybe we might find one somewhere 
about that doesn’t pay as it is ; or if you’d like one set up 
anywhere just name the locality. If I should have to buy 
out the British Museum I’ll do it, and make money in the 
end.” 

“ It was undoubtedly a striking pose,’* said Mr. Claver- 
ing, the popular manager-actor. He suddenly became 
greatly interested in Mr. Wicks. The gentleman who 
was financing Mr. Clavering at the Legitimate was be- 
coming rude, owing to the fifth consecutive failure that 
had been produced at his expense. 

“•You know Clara Clinker on our side, Mr. Claver- 
ing?” said Mr. Wicks. “Well, Clara makes faces some- 
times in a big part, but I never saw her make a face like 
that.” 

But Miss Liscomb only smiled, and said that the appre- 
ciative remarks of Mr. Wicks were most flattering to her. 
She valued them highly; and if she ever thought of the 
stage as a profession she would not forget Mr. Wicks. 
Meantime she thought that she would like to see the dawn 
over the river. 

She was out on the balcony in a moment, Maurice 
Wentworth holding the window open for her. 

She stepped out, and he followed. 


THE MAX APPEARS. 


178 


CHAPTER XII. 

MAKES A READER AWARE OF WHAT HAPPENED IN THE 
FACE OF THE DAWN. 

“ I SHOULD like very much to know what you meant by 
that demonstration last night,” said Felise de Ligueres to 
Philippa the day following the Odysseus Supper, as Al- 
fred’s little party was styled during the fortnight or so 
that it was remembered as an incident of the summer. 

Philippa and Felise found themselves together in the 
music room of a mansion in Berkeley Square which had 
been lent for a charity concert. A distinguished musician 
(foreign) was performing on the pianoforte a sonata which 
he had just composed — a most learned work, and one af- 
fording unlimited opportunities for conversation among 
the audience. 

“ What demonstration ? ” asked Philippa. 

‘‘You know. The one that I described so glibly, to 
save you the trouble of inventing a story that might not 
be believed,” said FMise de Ligueres. 

“ I will tell you,” said PhiliiDpa. “ I only saw one man 
die — it was three months ago. Almost his last words to 
me were the very words that Alfred Bentham spoke be- 
hind me last night. I had been talking to Mr. Went- 
worth when he came up, and I got a shock that completely 
unnerved me. That is the full and true explanation. You 
can understand it, I know, though I don’t suppose that 
any one else could.” 

“ I can understand, my dear child,” said Felise. “ Some- 
times things like that do happen. They affect us whether 
we are young or old. We never become quite accustomed 
to them.” 

“ Do you think that your explanation was accepted by 
every one— it was so clever— so thoughtful of you, my 
dear Felise ? ” 

“ It was accepted by every one for whom it was meant, 
my Philipj)a. The others— Maurice Wentworth ” 


174 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ Oh, I explained all to him.” 

“ On the balcony ? ” 

“ On the balcony. He understands.” 

“ Oh, then it hardly matters about any one else.” 

There was a pleasant smile on the features of Madame 
de Ligueres as she looked straight before her to the plat- 
form, where a man was in the throes of a wrestle with a 
grand piano— a monstrous conflict, suggesting a scene 
from Les Travailleurs.” 

“No,” said Philippa; “it does not matter about any 
one else.” 

“ That is what you feel ? ” whispered Madame de Li- 
gueres — the musician was hovering round a pianissimo 
passage. 

“ That is one of the many things that I feel,” replied 
Philippa. 

“ You can choose,” said Felise. “ If I were you I 
would choose and make a good choice. There is a great 
deal to be taken into account: I hear that Lady Sandy- 
cliffe is sick unto death. The Countess of Sandycliffe — a 
title is a graceful thing, after all.” 

“ It is— after all,” said Philippa. 

“ You mean ? ” 

“ Just what you said, clih^e amie^ 

“ What do you put first ? ” 

“ Love.” 

“ You are right. And what next.” 

“ Love.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“Love.” 

“ P’shut! That third is an artistic mistake, my Phi- 
lippa. It is unworthy of you. I have no word to say 
against love. We cannot live without it, just as we can- 
not live without fresh air. But though we cannot live 
without air, we cannot live on air only. I will say 
nothing more, for you would have a very good right to 
refuse to answer me. But I will only say, to few girls is 
it permitted to have a choice in these matters. Poor 
things ! they must take what they can get. Marriage is 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


175 


going out. But you — ^you are fortunate enough to he in a 
position to make a choice, so choose wisely.” 

” That is wisdom ? ” said Philippa. 

This was the last word in their conversation ; for after 
lasting for close upon twenty minutes, the piano fight on 
the little platform terminated in a victory for the man : 
but it was a very near thing, people said ; if the piano 
could only have held out a little while longer, there might 
have been a different story to tell. As it was, the sonata 
was dying hard — in languid repetitions and modulations 
of the fundamental theme. 

The people who had been talking throughout the per- 
formance of the sonata on all subjects — from leit motifs 
to locomotives — from Meyerbeer to lager beer — applauded 
actively as soon as they became aware that it was over. 
A high-class sonata had a lot of fight in it : it took a groat 
deal of killing, they said. This was the first time that the 
work had been performed in public. 

It may he mentioned, however, that before a year had 
passed, the composer had played it in Berlin, and he had 
received a star ; he had played it in Vienna, and he had 
received a medal ; he had played it in Paris, and had re- 
ceived a riband ; he had then played it again in London, 
and had received a cheque. Germany honours art, Aus- 
tria respects it, France worships it, England buys it. 

“ That is wisdom ? ” said Philippa, giving the violet 
depths of her eyes for Madame de Ligueres to lose herself 
within, as they parted at their carriages. 

“ Choose,” said FMise. 

Was it left for her to choose f 

She lay back on the cushions of the victoria as it got 
into Piccadilly — a congenial locality for a mind that re- 
flects — and gave herself up to that question. 

She had long ago ceased to think of the words which 
Alfred Bentham had spoken behind her — the words that 
had come upon her with the weight of a blow staggering 
her, and forcing that cry of terror from her — the words 
that seemed to come from another world mocking her in 


176 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


her hour of gladness. She had ceased to think of that 
mocking voice which meant to remind her that she had 
not yet brought to a close a certain episode in her life, and 
to assure her that the life slie was living was but an 
interim between the acts of a drama which was begun in 
that death chamber at the village, and had yet to be 
played out. 

For a moment she had felt the force of this brutal re- 
minder — brutal as conscience; and she had cried out in 
the terror of that moment. 

But then? ... 

What were the words that he spoke to her during the 
three minutes they were alone upon the balcony, face to 
face with the dove’s feathers of the dawn that fluttered 
silently, mysteriously, through the still air, turning the 
river that had been dark into a broad band of shimmering 
fabric ? She had looked, and had seen the dawn upon his 
face as he held her hand with her bare arm pressed close 
to him. The lights were shining yellow and pale along 
the Embankment, and dwindling away across the bridge. 
The chime of the great clock floated down the river from 
St. Stephen’s. The farewell chat and the laughter sounded 
in the room behind her. 

“ My darling— my love— my life ! What has moved 
you so f You are with me — I am tvith you.'" 

Those were his words the moment that his face came 
out from the lights of the room into the light of the dawn. 
And she felt his hands clasping her arm and holding it 
to him as passionately as if it had been her body. 

She had laughed in reply. 

God was on her side. 

She had prayed to God in the church to give him to 
her, and he had been given to her. 

What did it matter to her if that voice which she had 
heard in the room — the voice that arrogated to itself the 
monition of Fate — should sound for evermore in her ears, 
when God had heard her prayer ? 

That was her thought, and that was why she had 
laughed. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


177 


“We are together,” he had said. “Speak to me, my 
beloved— speak to me oue word, to tell me that you fear 
nothing.” 

“You heard me laugh,” she had replied. “Well, I 
was laughing in the face of Fate. You know sometimes 
things happen that make us fancy that we are being 
mocked by some power outside this world — a mocking 
devil that seems to see the end of the matters of which we 
see only the beginning. I felt that that devil was here, 
and I was laughing in his face. I can laugh at Fate -now 
—in your arms. Does that tell you that I fear nothing ? ” 

She had felt his hands tighten upon her arm in hold- 
ing it close to him. His eyes were upon hers ; and then — 
then he turned suddenly away ; her arm fell limply down 
among the flowing draperies of her costume ; he took a 
step forward, and stood with both hands grasping the rail 
of the balcony. 

“ It is enough,” she heard him say. “ It is enough.” 

She stood more than a stride apart from him. 

A curious thought came to her at that moment, and 
again she gave a little laugh. 

He turned upon her. 

“ For God’s sake, do not laugh,” he said in a voice that 
was tremulous — almost hoarse. “ Do not laugh at Fate. 
When men fancy they are mocking at Fate, they are being 
mocked by that devil you were speaking of — a devil that 
is stronger than God and love.” 

In another second they were together in the room ; and 
she was describing the dawn in such phrases as caused 
Albert Benthara to say, 

“You were right, Mrs. Bennett Wyse; Miss Liscomb 
has described a dawn at Venice.” 

She recollected the whole scene as she was being driven 
up Piccadilly, and on to Sloane Street, where she had to 
make a call on behalf of Mrs. Bennett Wyse. The time 
that was occupied in its playing could scarcely have reached 
the end of the third minute ; and yet it had been sufficient 
to make her assured that her prayer had been answered — 
he had been given to her. 


ITS 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


She had clutched his arm in the supper room where she 
had been overcome with terror, and he had, she remem- 
bered, grasped her arm on the balcony in almost the same 
way. His passion of the moment had thrilled her, and it 
was in the thrill of his passion that she had laughed in the 
face of that Power which had just been mocking her. Her 
second laugh had not, however, been due to the same im- 
pulse. The fact was that, seeing some one walking on the 
Embankment below, she had w^ondered what that person 
would think should he look upwards and notice her stand- 
ing there in her flowing white draperies looking into the 
pearly east. Such incongruous fancies had often come to 
her, as they do to others, at moments of the deepest feel- 
ing; but he had thought that she was still mocking the 
Power that had seemed to make a mock of her. 

She had not had time to explain anything to him; but 
she would do it when — when ? 

Oh, what was there to explain ? Had she not felt his 
love for her in that grasp of his hands upon her arm — in 
that enfolding of her arm as though it wei’e her body that 
he had held so close to him ? Had he not called her his 
love — his life ? What was any explanation between such 
as they were ? 

Only the least little chilling breath came upon her as 
she thought of how he had suddenly dropped her arm — 
he had not dung it away from him : he had merely let it 
fall, and it had fallen among her draperies as helplessly 
as a dead body falls into the sea— as helplessly as she 
would fall — fall — fall, if, — oh God, if it were possible ! — if 
he were now to turn away from her for evermore. 

Only for an instant did she feel the icy breath. It was 
lost in the whirlwind of passion that thrilled her as she 
repeated the words that he had spoken, My darling— 
my love— my life!'' What words they were! What 
words they were ! Ah, she had spoken truly to her friend 
Felise : no choice was left to her since she had heard him 
utter those words. What was any one in the world to her 
now ? What was all the world to her ? How could she 
ever have thought of love as she once had thought of it— 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


179 


making up her mind as to the safeguards with which it 
should be encompassed ? It was to be safeguarded ^ by 
wealth, by distinction, by sympathy in art, by she knew 
not what. 

How could she ever have been such a fool as to fancy 
that love was something that could be controlled, and have 
its course directed by much thinking upon it ? She knew 
better now. She knew that she would love the man who 
had been given to her in response to her prayer, even if 
he were poor, without distinction in the world, and with 
no sympathy for the things that she loved. Now she knew 
what love meant. 

And he had been given to her in answer to the prayer 
she had made when kneeling in the church. 

That showed that God was on her side. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

PUTS IN PROMINENCE LORD SANDYCLIFFE’S CONCLUSIONS. 

While Philippa was reducing to an easy system the 
solution of the gravest problem that a highly developed 
theology could suggest, her carriage was making its way 
to Sloane Street, where other problems not altogether of an 
ethical type awaited her solution. The fact was that 
Madame Lucy Jones had her establishment in Sloane 
Street, and with that artiste Philippa had an appoint- 
ment. 

The difficulties incidental to the acceptance of a new 
costume do not glide away so easily as do those of theol- 
ogy when attacked in a proper spirit; so that an hour 
spent with Madame Lucy could not be regarded as an ex- 
travagant expenditure of time. Of course Madame Lucy 
had heard of the Odysseus Supper of the night before — 
was not every one in London talking about the Greek 
dress of the ladies? — of the effect produced by the appear- 
ance of Miss Liscomb in the marvellous robe that had 


180 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


been designed for her by one of Madame Lucy’s young 
men? Already, Madame Lucy told Miss Liscomb in con- 
fidence, she had been approached by some very distin- 
guished persons— they were almost Personages — on the 
question of Greek robes for an entertainment of their 
own ; so that it seemed pretty clear that the season would 
reach its end swathed in severely classical draperies. 

The Introspectors’ Toilette, for which Madame Lucy 
had been responsible at the beginning of the season, had 
been, as every one knew, a marvellously expressive cos- 
tume ; but it was on too high a plane of thought to suit 
the majority of figures or faces. A toilette designed on a 
lower intellectual level would have run a chance of be- 
coming popular, she explained to Miss Liscomb; and so 
soon as anything became popular it, of course, ceased to 
have a value in the eyes of Madame Lucy’s clientele. 
Now, as there could be no doubt that before another month 
would have passed, Brixton and Bermondsey — Madame 
Lucy bracketed the two localities — would be arrayed in 
Greek robes, or what they fondly imagined were Greek 
robes— Mrs. Bennett Wyse was quite right in desiring 
something altogether different in style to wear at the 
Woodland Glade Drama which w^as to be produced in the 
course of a few weeks. 

It was to consult with Madame Lucy on this rather im- 
portant matter that Philippa had driven to Sloane Street. 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse knew that she was safe in entrusting 
this duty to her guest. Whatever Philippa and Madame 
Lucy might devise between them would be right ; and so 
she remained within doors at Battenberg Gardens to make 
tea for Tommy Trafford, when he might arrive. 

When Philippa returned to Battenberg Gardens she 
found that not only had Tommy Trafford turned up, but 
another youth was also being administered to by Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse. This was Teddy Haven ; and he seemed 
to have got on very well with the Queen Poppy, for 
Tommy Trafford had become distinctly grumpy, and was 
intently observing the landscape visible from one of the 
windows of the drawing-room, standing with his back to 


THE MAN APPEARS. Igl 

the room for that purpose. At another part of the room 
Alfred Bentham was talking to Lord Sandyclitfe. 

Philippa did not betray any great enthusiasm in her 
greeting of Teddy. She merely inquired how long 
he had been in town, and if he meant to make a long 
stay. 

“I did not know that you were acquainted with 
Teddy,” she added, turning to Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ Oh yes, we have been acquainted for some time,” 
said the Queen Poppy, with a laugh. “ Oh, dear yes ; how 
long have you been with me now, Mr. Haven ? — how de- 
lightful to he privileged to call you Teddy ! ” 

Mr. Trafford thought it time to turn round from the 
window. He would have liked to turn Teddy violently in 
the direction of that window. Teddy was proportionately 
delighted. He had not yet got over his habit of blushing 
upon occasions, and this was an occasion when he consid- 
ered himself entitled to blush without reproach. He had 
frequently heard that ladies in the best society in London 
were very difficult to approach, and certainly not given to 
familiarity with provincial youths ; but he now found, from 
his twenty minutes’ experience of one of these ladies, that 
he had been grossly misinformed as to the strictness of 
their social views. He said he couldn’t see why Mrs. Ben- 
nett Wyse should not call him Teddy, as everybody did ; 
and thereupon Mrs. Bennett Wyse laughed pleasantly and 
shook her head sadly. 

“ Go away and talk to Phil,” said she. “ She will be 
dying, I am sure, to hear all Baymouth news: ah, you 
should hear her sigh sometimes as she thinks of dear old 
Baymouth. Take her away to the window-seat, and forget 
that there is any one else in the room.” 

‘‘ Come along, Teddy,” said Philippa, quite pleasantly. 
“ Carry my cup for me, like* a good boy.” 

He followed her to the window, and then she asked him 
if it v/as possible that he had come to Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s 
house without having previously made the acquaintance 
of Mrs. Bennett Wyse; and he assured her that that was 
precisely the course he had adopted, and ventured to ex- 


182 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


press the belief that he had not thereby done anything to 
incur the anger of Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ I could not help coming — that’s the truth of the mat- 
ter,’’ said he. “ I am miserable at home when I read in all 
the papers about you and the position that you have got 
in London. I see you surrounded by the best known men 
in the world, and I know what the end of it will be. Oh, 
I get mad sometimes when I think of you here; and I 
made up my mind that I’d come to you whatever the con- 
sequences might be. I daresay I’ve made a fool of myself 
as usual — you’ll say so, at any rate.” 

“ Why should I, dear Teddy ? ” 

“ There you go — ‘ dear Teddy ’ — just as if I were your 
brother. There’s that painter fellow who was at Steeple- 
cross and wanted to know if I was your brother ; and you 
told him that I was almost your brother — as if any one 
could be almost a brother ! A chap is either a brother or 
nothing.” 

“ It’s difRcult to be cross with you,” she said ; “ and yet 
it would be better if I were. You know how much I have 
liked you— how greatly I like you still. But do you fancy 
that I’ll continue liking you if you go against your father’s 
wishes and run the chance of being left without a farthing 
in the end ? You know that you are here secretly, and that 
if Sir Joshua heard of it he would send for his solicitor and 
alter his will.” 

“ I don’t care the toss of a penny,” said he. “ He may 
alter his will a dozen times if he wishes; I’ll never give 
you up. I’d continue loving you, Phil, if I was left with- 
out a penny.” 

“ That would be magnanimous indeed,” said she. “ But 
even if you hadn’t a penny, Teddy, I believe that I’d like 
you quite as well as I do now.” 

“ That’s not enough for me,” said he. “ I want some- 
thing more than mere liking. Oh, I wonder if you’ll ever 
be really in love, Phil — if you ever are you’ll know what 
it means.” 

He did not look at her; and therein he made a mistake. 
If he had seen her at that moment when he questioned the 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


183 


likelihood of her ever being in love, even so superficial an 
observer as he was could scarcely have failed to get a hint 
that would have caused him to put in a different form the 
expression he had just used. 

Before he looked at her she had smoothed away the hint 
from her features. 

“Perhaps,” said she, “I may yet live to know some- 
thing of that art which you have so completely mastered, 
Teddy. I may know — in a small way, of course — what ’tis 
to love. Meantime, I insist on your returning this even- 
ing to Baymouth. I would not have you jeopardise your 
future, dear Teddy, for the sake of — of — what you are do- 
ing. I should never forgive myself, though I’m sure you 
would forgive me, if Sir Joshua’s money were left away 
from you.” 

“ I’ll not go back,” said he. “ Dammit all ! I’m not a 
schoolboy run away from the school house. I’m a man- 
look how Mrs. Bennett Wyse treated me— didn’t that other 
Johnny get jealous of me? You saw him sulking with 
his back to us ? Doesn’t that prove that I’m treated like a 
man, not like the schoolboy-brother you’d make me out to 
be ? ” 

“ Come,” said Phil; “you are raising your voice again, 
and I won’t allow that. Oh, Teddy, cannot you see that 
as girls are now-a-days — as they take a practical view of 
all matters of life, including this love itself that you are so 
fond of talking about, you can only have a choice of nice 
girls to love — may be even to marry — if you have a great 
deal of money, as you are almost certain to have. You 
see I do not forget about your money, whatever you may 
do — oh, no, I have seen how delightful it is to have thou- 
sands of pounds to play with. Why, last Saturday Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse bought dresses for herself and me that cost 
thirty pounds each ; we wore them last night, and it is quite 
unlikely that we shall ever wear them again.” 

“Pooh! — sixty pounds! That’s not a deadly thing,” 
said he. 

“No; but I have just come from ordering two more 
costumes that will cost forty pounds each, I daresay; and 


184 : 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


I don’t believe that we shall wear them more than 
once.” 

“ Oh, I say ! ” 

“ How would you like to he left without a shilling by 
your father after marrying a woman to whom these ex- 
penses are a necessity of existence ? ” 

He looked at the pattern of Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s par- 
quet for a second or two. Then he raised his eyes to hers. 

“ You've never gone so far as that before,” said he, in a 
very low voice. “You’ve never so much as admitted the 
possibility of my marrying you. If I do, you may reckon 
on a sixty-guinea dress every week so long as the dross 
holds out, Phil — you may, indeed — and what about hats ? 
— hadn’t we better talk about your hats ? What price do 
they make them up to ? You may order fifty on the first 
day of every year — I’m not the man to see my wife a 
dowd. Now about gloves ” 

“ Get home as soon as possible, and when you reach 
home don’t mention my name at any time, or under any 
circumstances. Be as good friends as you please with 
those attractive girls whom I remember at Baymouth— I 
remember their faces, but I'm ashamed to say that their 
names are not quite so fresh in my mind as they might be.” 

“ I hate the lot of them,’’ said Teddy. 

“You are wrong to do so,” said Philippa. “ You must 
be on the best terms with them all — with one in particu- 
lar, if you please — and then you will remain on good 
terms wuth Sir Joshua, and inherit his tens of thousands 
and marry a wife who will spend them. Isn’t that a nice 
programme ? ” 

“ Only if you were the girl,” said he. “ But I know 
you won’t agree to that this evening.” 

“ No,’’ she said; “ not this evening.’’ 

“ But I’m glad I came, for I’ve made some advance ; I 
feel that. Who is that old chap wfith his hair brushed so 
carefully that you’d hardly suspect he w^as bald?” he 
added in a whisper. 

“ That’s Lord Sandy cliff e,” replied Phil. 

“ I’ve noticed him with his eyes on you more than once. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


185 


I don’t like the way he looks at you. He wants to be 
kicked. I’d like to do it for your sake. I wanted to pro- 
voke Thompson to fight; but he wouldn’t. Oh, a chap 
has no chance now-a-days of showing how much he cares 
for a girl.” 

“ You are one of the fortunate ones ; you have a chance 
now,” said she. 

“ I — a chance ? how ? ” 

“ Go back to Baymouth by the first train, and never let 
Sir Joshua hear my name mentioned by you. Now, I’ve 
shown you in what direction your chance lies. Good-bye.” 

She held out her hand to him, and before she could 
take a step towards a group of Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s tea- 
drinkers Lord Sandy cliff e was beside her. He was about 
to put out his hand to her— she had not shaken hands with 
him on entering the room— but at that instant she turned 
to Teddy Haven, and gave him her hand again, saying, 

“ Good-bye once more, Teddy. How do you do. Lord 
Sandyclifl:‘e ? ” 

“ Nice bright boy ! ” Teddy heard Lord Sandy cliffe say 
as he went to bid good-bye to Mrs. Bennett Wyse, who 
begged him to come again soon. Before he reached the 
door, he gave another glance at the man who had called 
him a ‘‘nice bright boy.” That man had just found Phi- 
lippa a chair and himself one quite handy. 

“ Infernal old scoundrel ! ” was his comment on the 
man who had alluded to him as “ a nice bright boy,” only 
he was outside the drawing-room before he muttered the 
words. 

“ I have been trying to ingratiate myself with Mr. Bcn- 
tham,” said Lord Sandycliffe, “ in case he may be giving 
any more Greek suppers. All the world is talking about 
that affair last night. Why was I not there ? ” 

“ It must surely have been an oversight,” said Philippa. 
“ Have you asked Mr. Bentham to explain the matter ? ” 

“ I didn’t like to go quite so far ; but I gave him to un- 
derstand that if there’s another at any time my name’s not 
to be omitted. I am told that your beauty was never seen 
—I should perhaps say, felt— to greater advantage. I sup- 


186 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


pose you heard that my poor wife is not expected to last 
out the week ? ” 

The final phrase he seemed to think was in natural se- 
quence with his remark regarding the influence of Philip- 
pa’s beauty. 

“1 think,” said she quietly, “that the strawberry crop 
this year must be above the average. I saw men selling 
them at threepence a basket at Knightsbridge just now.” 

He looked at her with something beyond mere admira- 
tion in his eyes. 

“ Is it possible ? ” he said. “ Threepence a basket, did 
you say ? ” 

“ Threepence,” she replied, with all the earnestness she 
could imjDart to her voice and eyes. 

“ You are interested in the strawberry crop ? ” said he. 
“ It is not forbidden fruit.” 

“I am interested only in Mrs. Bennett Wyse's guests,” 
said she ; “ and that is why I must say good-bye to Mr. 
Bentham.” 

She rose from her chair and without offering a word 
of apology to Lord Sandycliffe, walked across the room 
to where Alfred Bentham was lingering over his farewell 
to Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

Lord Sandycliffe watched her as she gave her hand to 
the painter-fellow, and stood in front of him exchanging a 
phrase or two — possibly on the subject of the Greek 
supper. 

“ He is in love with her,” was what Lord Sandycliffe 
thought after he had looked again across the room. 
“Does she love him ? ” he then asked himself. 

The conclusion that he came to was that what she 
loved was admiration. He knew, ho vf ever, that something 
had occurred to change her attitude in regard to himself 
since the day that he had driven back to Richmond with 
her by his side. At that time she had not shown herself 
to be in the least degree shocked or insulted by anything 
that he had said to her : but now she had not only refused 
to shake hands with him, she had also given him to under- 
stand pretty plainly— well, that he must look elsewhere 


THE MAN APPEARS. 137 

for sympathy for the critical condition of the wife whose 
life he had made a hell. 

“ Some fellow has been making love to her — either that 
painter-fellow or some other,” was the result of his earnest 
consideration of the question suggested by the disagreeable 
change in the young woman’s demeanour. 

“ No, not the painter-fellow — some other fellow : she 
would never have gone to him like that if he had been 
making love to her. But, all the same, he is in love with 
her ; and the sooner I get down to my club the better 
chance I shall have of reading the evening papers, which 
is a better occupation than listening to the prattle of girls 
who are much too clever to be good.” 

These were his last reflections before bending over the 
chair of Mrs. Bennett Wyse, making his adieux : he did 
not bend very low, however ; such an act would have 
given his hostess, and perhaps others, a bird’s-eye view, so 
to speak, of the upper portion of his head, and this was 
just where he was weakest. The eagle glance of Teddy 
Haven liad, however, as is already known, overcome all 
the artificial precautions that he had taken with a view of 
concealing his weakness. 

Lord Sandycliffe was clever enough to refrain from 
the attempt to get a farewell hand-shake from Philippa. 
He gave her time, after Alfred Bentham had left, to go up 
the room and join a little knot of guests who had just ar- 
rived. He made no attempt to follow her — he only gave 
a little wave of his hand in her direction, to which she 
responded quite pleasantly. 

He almost walked into the arms of a man who was 
entering the room — a man whose name he knew to be 
Maurice W entworth. 


13 


188 


ONE FAIU DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

REFERS EXCLUSIVELY TO THE CASE OF MR. WICKS. 

The Green Scandinavian Band was making melody on 
the lawn in front of iJie mansion at Danesfort — the estate 
lately acquired by Mr. Eleazar Wicks, from the trustees 
appointed by the Court of Bankruptcy to administer the 
available assets of the Marquis of Danesfort. A duodecimo 
edition of the Green Scandinavians was performing in a 
spacious marquee at a part of the grounds about a mile 
away ; a third band — it belonged to the village of Danesfort 
and its uniform was crimson — was being stayed with 
flagons in a distant refreshment tent ; and Mr. Wicks, as 
he listened to the two bands that were in working order, 
and as he returned from a casual but very satisfactory 
inspection of the village band, the members of which were 
playfully throwing tumblers at one another, felt every 
inch an English gentleman of the right sort. He felt 
that although he was very comfortable in what he called 
“ pants,” still if it was considei’ed de rigueur to wear 
breeches and postilions’ riding boots, such as he had seen 
in illustrations — mostly American — of the ideal English 
gentleman, he would not shrink from his duty in this re- 
spect. He thought that on the whole it was very doubt- 
ful if any addition to his costume could make him feel 
more intensely than he did, that he had attained to the 
I)osition of an English gentleman, with its responsibilities 
and its privileges. 

The latest of the privileges of this enviable position 
was the entertainment of the Woodland Glade branch of 
the Introspectors. 

Mr. Wicks’ architect had on the conclusion of the 
negotiations for the purchase of the property, made him 
feel quite uneasy in his mind in respect of the castle ; the 
fact being, the architect assured him, that its design was 
not such as could by any possibility he regarded as reflect- 
ing the character of that form of architecture which found 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


189 


favour with the early Danes, who had, as was oianifest 
from the name of the*’property, been originally in occupa- 
tion of the estate. 

It was naturally very disquieting to Mr. Eleazar Y. 
Wicks of Eleazarville, Pa., to be made aware of the fact 
that there was nothing Danish about the Castle of Danes- 
fort; and he gave orders to have the mistake rectified 
with as little delay as possible. 

He felt that it would be preposterous for an American 
gum manufacturer to live in an English mansion that 
did not adequately refiect the purest form of early Danish 
architecture. So the work was done at an expenditure of 
the smallest amount of time and the largest amount of 
money ; and a great scandal was averted. 

The result was very pleasing to the architect, who, as 
is already known, referred to the work under the name of 
restoration ; and as he was the person to be satisfied, there 
was no reason for anyone to be discontented. 

Mr. Wicks’ transaction with Alfred Bentham he con- 
sidered one of the most fortunate of his life. He was a 
bachelor, and inclined to be sociable; bat he found while 
his mansion was being decorated and furnished, that the 
landlord of the village inn — it was not nearly so English 
as hundreds of inns in Pennsylvania with which he was 
acquainted — was the sole representative of the society of 
the neighbourhood with which he was likely to come into 
contact— for a considerable time at any rate. 

The landlord was very confidential, and indeed very 
frank with him on the subject of the possibilities of soci- 
ety in the neighbourhood of the estate. 

“They’ll thaw — bless yer ’art they’ll thaw all right in 
half a dozen years or so— who knows ? in four, perhaps, — 
if you subscribe to the Rector’s charities.” 

“I’m a hard shell Baptist, sir,” said Mr. Wicks. 

“ Lor’ bless yer ’art,” said the landlord, “ the rector’ll 
take a cheque from a ’ard shell as ready as a soft; but I 
fancy he has a preference for a soft ’un — ay. ay, the softer 
the better — the softer the better, Mr. Wicks. But, as I 
was sayin’, they’ll all thaw. Give ’em time, sir, give ’em 


190 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


time. Even Sir Hedward — ’im as was twice Mayor o’ 
Ditchborough, and is the most stuck up of all our neigh- 
bours — even Sir Hedward ’ll thaw: he has a son as is foud 
o’ shooting pheasants.” 

“ They won’t find my house a refrigerator, my good 
man, if they only enter it,” said Mr. Wicks. 

It was just when his prospects of attracting a large and 
genial society about him seemed dimmest, that he had 
been invited to the Odysseus Supper by Alfred Bentham. 
In a moment he found himself the centre of a very inter- 
esting set of men and women whose names were in the 
habit of appearing in the newspapers, and under very 
creditable headings too. He thought more of the credit- 
able headings than the majority of persons would have 
done. He did not know that the struggle among a certain 
class of modern women for publicity is so great that some 
of them would rather be associated with a discreditable 
heading in a newspaper than not to appear at all in 
print. 

The painters, he noticed with great satisfaction, were 
very pleasant to him at the supper, and so were all the 
women, who, unlike the painters, could not possibly (he 
thought) have anything to gain by their friendliness. 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse, whose name was in the habit of ap- 
pearing in so many short and chatty leading articles, as 
the chief motive power of what was called the New Move- 
ment, was kindness itself to him; and so was that striking 
young woman with the glowing hair. He wondered if 
there was a Mr. Bennett Wyse: he had not seen Mr. Ben- 
nett Wyse referred to in leading articles, long or short, 
chatty or ponderous. No; Mr. Bennett Wyse was not 
present, some one had told him ; but yes — oh, yes, there 
was a Mr. Bennett Wyse. He was in Africa, or some 
place, and the quails were certainly very tasty. Had the 
terrapins been imported in honour of his, Mr. Wicks’, 
presence ? 

Then he had gone to Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s house for 
tea, and a couple of nights afterwards for dinner. Sir 
George Breadmore had put his name up at his club, and 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


191 


had made Tommy Trafford drive him down to Hampton 
Court on his coach with a most delightful party. Sir 
George told some of his friends in strict confidence — that 
was bow it was all over London the next day — that Mr. 
Wicks had stood for a long time with his hands in his 
pockets gazing at Hampton Court, and at last was heard to 
say, shaking his head : 

“What a durned fool I was to buy that property at 
Danesfort before I had seen this ! ” 

It was immediately after this little excursion that Mr. 
Wicks, who had taken a floor at the hotel on the Embank- 
ment in which the Odysseus Supper had been given, ap- 
proached Mrs. Bennett Wyse on the subject of organising 
a little entertainment for a few of his friends, avIio were 
also her friends. 

(It may be mentioned that Mr. Wicks became quite 
reconciled after a time to the continued absence of Mr. 
Bennett Wyse, and asked no further questions regarding 
him.) 

“ An entertainment ? ” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“Yes,” he replied. “Everybody has been very kind to 
me here — yes, since I came to know you, and I’d like to 
give a sort of show before we part. ” 

“ What, you don’t mean to say that you’re going back 
to America, Mr. Wicks ? ” cried the lady, 

“ No, not quite so bad as that— nearly though,” he re- 
plied. “ I’m going back to my estate. The house is fin- 
ished — it’s real Danish now, I believe — and some folks is 
bound to live in it. I want to give a farewell entertain- 
ment, ma’am — something high-toned, no side-show, you 
mind ! something as high-toned as the Lyceum Theatre, 
and as lively as a buzz-saw, you understand ? ” 

“You come to me expecting that I shall solve the 
problem that has puzzled society for ages?” said she, 
laughing. 

“ I do,” said he. 

“You heard of the high-toned entertainment that the 
Introspectors have among themselves?” said she. “You 
heard of our Entr' actes — guessing the ownership of the 


102 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


eyes and the noses and the ears behind the screen ? There’s 
not much of a high tone about that, Mr. Wicks.” 

“ It doesn’t seem so at first sight anyway,’' said he. 

“ And wdien we can invent nothing better than that, 
how can you look to me for help ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ But I do,” said he ; “ and you’H hit on something too 
if you splice your mind to it.” 

And she did. 

The Woodland Glade Branch of the Introspectors 
meant to take a new departure. They had hitherto only 
produced odd scenes from dramas in the open air, hut for 
some time they had been rehearsing a singular piece, which 
one of their representative young men had composed in 
imitation of a Masque. All they needed — the composer 
especially — was a liberal-minded gentleman who would 
place at their disposal, and the disposal of their friends, a 
mansion and a woodland glade, with a lake, a pine forest, 
a medimval tower with a moat, and a few other incidents 
of the landscape. It was, however, a source of complaint 
among the members of the Woodland Glade branch that 
no gentleman had appeared to express his willingness to 
give up his grounds to them for a week or two in order to 
allow of certain alterations being made — a tree cut down 
here and there, a greenhouse removed and a pond substi- 
tuted — consequently, the chances of the Masque being pro- 
duced before the dispersal of all the Introspectors at the 
end of the season were but slender. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse did not as a rule give much thought 
to the Woodland Glade branch; but when Mr. Wicks had 
turned aside from consulting her on the subject of the 
entertainment he was so anxious to provide, it suddenly 
occurred to her that here was the man who had hitherto 
eluded the search of the Woodland Gladers. He had a 
fine castle — now that the essential Danish note had been 
introduced — picturesque grounds, a most amiable disposi- 
tion, a couple of millions of pounds in cash at his bankers; 
and a pleasant woman — provided that she was an English 
woman— could induce him to do anything she wished. 

“ Mr. Wicks,” cried Mrs. Bennett Wyse, “ I’ll put you 


THE MAN APPP^AR?^. I93 

on tRe track of bossing a show — is that the right American 
phrase ? — I haven’t heard you use it once.” 

‘‘We’ll not quarrel over it. Pass,” said he. “A 
show ” 

“A show that will be more talked about than the 
Odysseus Supper.” 

And she kept her word. 

Danesfort was placed at the disposal of the Woodland 
Gladers — that was whit the other Introspectors called 
them — and the face of the landscape was altered by an 
army of gardeners to suit the topographical plan of the 
writer of the Masque. A roaring torrent was made at 
considerable expense at one part of the open-air prosce- 
nium — Mr. Wicks expressed his willingness to make the 
torrent roll up the slope instead of down it, should the 
stage-manager think such a novelty advisable; but the 
stage-manager said that that would be a retrograde move- 
ment; so the torrent took a downward course. Then a 
poition of the slope was laid out as a tropical forest — such 
a tropical forest as one finds on the Riviera, whence the 
palms and cactuses were imported; and a mediaeval tower 
with a moat was purchased from a Scotch laird who had 
no further use for it, though he had for the money that 
was paid for it. It was conveyed southward — moat and 
all - -by a special train or two, and it soon constituted an 
effective incident of the grounds at Danesfort. 

It was about this time that the society newspapers be- 
gan to take a respectful and intelligent interest in the 
movements of Mr. Wicks; and from various snap shots of 
casual, and, apparently, innocent visitors, a series of views 
of the natural scenery that was being conveyed to Danes- 
fort were executed for the illustrated weeklies. Mr. Wicks 
occupied a full page of the Introspective Review; and 
several amusing stories of his early life were composed by 
one of the young men who contrive to make the Pecca- 
dillo Gazette interesting. Masks and Faces — that very 
enterprising journal — furnished its readers with portraits 
of Mr. Wicks, Mrs. Bennett Wyse, the Architect of the 
New Danish Castle, the Stage-Manager of the Introspective 


104 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Masque, the genial Landlord of the Green Di*agon of 
Danesfort, and the Sporting Magistrate who took the chair 
at the Danesfort Fortnightly Sessions. So that long be- 
fore the day appointed for the performance, the Masque 
had become the topic of society, shouldering everything 
else out of the way, including a Crisis in Ireland and a 
threatened General Election. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse had not promised too much. 

She knew that the entertainment would, like Alfred 
Bentham’s supper, he placed to the credit of the Introspect- 
ors ; and that unless some person very much cleverer 
than she was, succeeded in the never-ending search for 
something new, which gives a certain feeling of restlessness 
to modern society, the Introspectors would last through 
another season. 

A few special trains conveyed the three hundred guests 
who had been invited by Mr. Wicks — with the kind assist- 
ance of Mrs. Bennett Wyse — to his grounds ; and when 
these guests perceived the scale upon which everything 
was provided for their comfort— when they roamed over 
the castle, and found that they were expected to lunch off 
delicacies that had come from the East as well as the West 
— when they heard the Green Scandinavians making mel- 
ody outside — when they saw the sun shining over all — 
(the sunshine that never failed during the day was set 
down to the credit of Mr. Wicks) the guests lifted up their 
voices and cried aloud in praise of Mr. Wicks. 

They also said — 

(1) That Mrs. Bennett Wyse was an extremely clever 
woman ; 

(2) That Philippa Liscomb was playing her cards well ; 

(3) That they hoped all was proper ; 

(4) But that everything seemed so lovely they feared 
that there vas impropriety somewhere. 

Madame de Ligueres, on returning with Alfred Ben- 
tham from an inspection of one of the marquees — that 
which had been erected for the feasting of the villagers— 
stopped suddenly in the centre of the lawn and said, 

“Alfred, define an English gentleman.” 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


195 


“That’s simple enough,” said Alfred. “An English 
gentleman is a retired English shopkeeper. But that is 
without prejudice to the definition which you have ready, 
or you would not have questioned me.” 

“ An Euglish gentleman,” said Felise, “ is a self-made 
American who buys an estate in England.” 

“ And helps a struggling English artist,” he added. 

And the Green Scandinavians continued to obey the 
beat of their conductor, and the village bandsmen con- 
tinued to slumber otf the efFecis of their jesting among 
the tumblers. Their crimson uniforms suggested the rem- 
nant of the summer’s peonies, slowly decaying under the 
trees. 


CHAPTER XV. 

COMMENCES WITH A HOPE, BUT ENDS WITH A SUGGESTION 
OP ORANGE BLOSSOM. 

“ Do you know,” said Maurice, “ the expression upon 
your face was what one might imagine to be upon the face 
of a woman before whom a ghost has appeared ? ” 

“I hope that the painters who were present were ready 
to take notes of it,” said she. “The expression on the 
features of one who sees a ghost is certainly worth record- 
ing ; and I saw a ghost at that moment.” 

Maurice Wentworth and Philippa Liscomb were seated 
together in a marvellous bower hollowed out like a cave- 
dwelling in the side of a high mound overlooking an 
ornamental piece of water — one of the old fish-ponds of 
the Danesfort grounds. The representation of the Masque 
was over; and the general opinion that prevailed among 
those who had witnessed it, seemed to be that it had not, 
to any degree worth speaking of, interfered with the en- 
joyment of the entertainment of the day. It had been 
occasionally coherent, and the dresses were resplendent, 
especially those of the water-nymphs— for the Masque in- 
cluded several water-nymphs and a satyr or two. The 


19G 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


author received many congratulations : he was assured 
that he had only to modernise the prose and cut out all 
the verse to make the piece quite intelligible. 

Maurice found himself by the side of Philippa in a 
group, and when this group broke up he remained with 
her. They had then strolled round the fish-pond, and 
wdien doing so they were overtaken by Lady Annadale 
and the youth who carried her sunshade; and by Lady 
Annadale they were advised to climb to the top of the 
mound, from which the view of the grounds, with the 
torrent and the moated tower in the distance, was, she de- 
clared, charming. They had taken this advice ; and on 
trying to reach level ground by another route, they had 
unexpectedly come upon this remarkable bower, hollowed 
out from an arbour of laurels and rhododendrons. Then 
for the first time since the Odysseus Supper — he had never 
had a chance before — Maurice began to speak of the re- 
markable incident at the close of the party. He had been 
thinking a good deal about that incident. It had not been 
explained. He had not given her a chance of explaining 
it. He had talked to her on quite another matter. 

“ A ghost ? ” said he. “ You are speaking in the tone 
of one who believes.” 

“For an instant,” said she, “I saw what I have said. 
Once I watched by a dying man — you know where that 
was.” 

“ I cannot forget it,” said he. 

“ And almost the last words that he spoke were the 
very words that Mr. Bentham said on coming behind me 
in the supper-room.” 

“ Great heavens ! ” 

“ The man asked me to look out of the window at the 
inn, and describe to him all that I saw. I went to the 
window, and saw the lovely spring landscape, and heard 
the lovely sounds of life from sky and meadow — there was 
a skylark singing and soaring— a waggon on the road— I 
tried to describe all to him. It was terrible to watch him 
die while I told him of the beauty of the world. . . . And 
then there came to my ears in the supper-room the self- 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


197 


same words in — it seemed to me — the self-same voice. I 
looked around, and I saw the face of the dead man gazing 
into my face.” 

‘‘ My poor child ! ” he said — he saw that her face was 
now becoming pale with the excitement of her words ; 

my poor child ! I had a feeling — an instinct of the truth. 
I cannot forget how I was inconsiderate enough to call 
for Alfred Bentham that day when you were in the midst 
of your grief. Is it to be my lot to be near you at such 
moments ? To be near you and yet not able to say a word 
to comfort you ? ” 

‘‘ I think,” said she, “I felt at that moment something 
of the trust that a woman has in the streugth of a man. 
I suppose that is the result of a woman’s training through 
long centuries. Did I not instinctively clutch at you as 
though I felt myself drowning — the waters closing over 
my head ? ” 

“ If you had but known how weak — how miserably — 
how contemptibly weak was the man beside you then — 
the man beside you now — you would not have looked to 
him for the help that you needed when that terror was 
upon you.” 

He spoke as if with an effort. His eyes were upon her 
face, and the expression that was in them was one that 
she could not translate. Was it passion ? was it pity ? 

At last she read the expression. His eyes were those 
of the man who says farewell for ever to one whom he 
loves. 

“ 0 God ! ” she cried, “you are going to say good-bye.” 

“ I am,” he said ; “ God help me, lam!” 

He sprang to his feet as she put out a hand to him — a 
trembling white hand. He took a step or two away from 
her, and^stood at the entrance to the little bower. Pie re- 
mained in an agony of irresolution for more than an in- 
stant ; then he clasped his hands after the manner of a 
diver in the act of plunging, and took a stride from the 
entrance to the narrow track made round about the 
mound. 

Was he gone ? 


198 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


She gave a little cry. Her eyes were closed ; both her 
hands were stretched out. 

In an instant he had caught them. He flung his kisses 
on them. He knelt at her feet and clasped her round the 
neck, holding her face down to his own while he kissed it 
all over, calling her his own love, his soul’s love, his lady, 
his life ; but he did not allow her to speak — every mur- 
mur of love on her lips melted into his lips, and then . . . 

He sprang to his feet : there was the sound of voices 
not far off — on the track leading to their bower. 

He waited silently, standing apart from her, for what 
might come. 

He had not long to wait. 

“We shall soon see what your eyesight is worth, my 
dear,’’ came the voice of Sir George Breadrnore. 

Then came another voice, at the sound of which some- 
thing like an exclamation of fear came from Maurice. 

“ Great God ! ” he cried, “ Alice— Alice ! ” 

Then the figure of Sir George Breadrnore appeared at 
the entrance to the bower, his face peering into the dim- 
ness of the twisted houghs. 

“ By the Lord, she’s right after all,” said he, catching a 
glimpse of Maurice. “You’re there, Wentworth ?” 

There appeared at the entrance a girl with a smiling, 
flushed face. 

She stood there with the smile upon her face, the sun- 
light making it still brighter. 

“ There he is, and Miss Liscorhb too,” said Sir George. 
“How do you do. Miss Liscomb ? Now, then, Went- 
worth, haven’t you a word of greeting for the child who 
has come ten thousand miles or thereabouts to pay you a 
visit ? ” 

He went to the girl — slowly, and put out his hand al- 
most mechanically. 

“ How can it be you ? ” he said. “ How have you come 
here ? ” 

“ I brought her down with me,” said Sir George. “ The 
General arrived with her last night ; he sent me a wure a 
few hours ago, and I met Alice, and took charge of her. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


190 


What eyes the girl has, to be sure ! We were hunting all 
over the grounds for you, but without success, when sud- 
denly she declared that one of the figures on the summit 
of the mound was yours, and she dragged me here. But 
by the time we got to the foot of the mound you had dis- 
appeared. Who the mischief could know that there 
was a rabbit-hole like this in the neighbourhood ? 
I think, if you don’t mind. I’ll take a seat beside Miss 
Liscomb ; it’s a bit of a climb up this mound. You may 
clear off — you two. IVe a good deal to say to Miss 
Liscomb.” 

“ Did you not get my letter, Maurice ? ” asked the girl. 
She was standing beside him a step beyond the entrance. 
A branch of syringa in the full glory of blossom rested 
upon her hat as though the flowers were its ordinary 
trimming. Philippa noticed this. The bloom of the 
syringa can scarcely be distinguished from orange-blos- 
som. 

“ I got no letter,” he said. “ When did you write ? ” 

“ When we were leaving Bombay. We came from 
Kurrachee in such hot haste there was no time to write 
from there.” 

“ Your letter will probably arrive by the next steamer,” 
said he. “ Heavens ! it seems to me that I am in a dream 
— that I shall awake in a minute and find that you are 
gone.” 

“ I can easily forgive you for thinking that,” said she, 
smiling very contentedly upon liim. “ Everything about 
this place to-day seems like a dream. Sir George told me 
all about Mr. Wicks. He presented me quite politely, 
even before we set out on our search for you.” 

“ Yes,” said he, mechanically ; “ everything that has 
taken place seems to me at this moment like the fantastic 
and incoherent elements of a dream.” 

“ I am not — I am myself, Maurice,” said she. 

You are — you are.” 

“ You’d fancy that he meant to suggest that that was 
the worst of it,” said Sir George. “ Come along. Miss 
Liscomb,” he added, rising. “Come along for a stroll 


200 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


with me. I don’t want to witness, longer than I can 
help, a moderately intelligent man in a condition of col- 
lapse.” 

Philippa rose. 

“ May I venture to remind you that I have not yet been 
presented to— to your charming young friend, Sir 
George ? ” she said. 

No one could tell that what w^as in her mind just then 
was a terrible fear of falling along the ground the mo- 
ment she would take a step. She felt herself tottering as 
she got upon her feet. Her apprehension almost amounted 
to an agony. 

“How stupid of me!” said Sir George. “My dear 
Alice, let me present you to Miss Liscomb ; Miss Heath- 
field, Miss Liscomb.” 

The two girls looked at one another without a smile 
for a’ single moment, then they shook hands smiling. 
Each of them fancied that the other’s smile was one of 
triumph. Both were right. 

“ I would have known you anywhere, Miss Liscomb,” 
said the girl. “ Now that the sunlight has found its way 
to your hair, I see that you are wonderfully like your por- 
traits — like the one that appeared in Masks and Faces in 
particular. How lovely it was 1 ” 

“ What a graceful way of robbing the compliment of 
its commonplaceness ! ” remarked Sir George. “ You are 
wonderfully like your best portrait. Miss Liscomb, and 
your best portrait is lovely ; I suppose it’s hanging in 
every bungalow in the Presidency by this time. They 
know how to appreciate loveliness there, when exhibited 
through the medium of cheap art. India is the home of 
the chromo.” 

Maurice stood to one side of the bower. He saw that 
the syringa branch had transferred itself to Philippa’s hat 
— the white blossoms mixed with the black lace of her hat, 
and a spray twisted itself under the brim, and shook like 
a delicately poised enamel ornament upon her hair just 
above her ear. 

Was that part of his dream, he wondered— that transfer 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


201 


of the orange-blossoms from the head of one girl to the 
head of the other ? 

He spoke no word, but stood there looking first at Phi- 
lippa, then at Alice. He could see that Philippa knew all 
that was to be known regarding the appearance of Alice 
Heathfield ; but how much did Alice know ? 


CHAPTER XVI. 

PROVIDES FOR THE FUTURE OF THE TWO YOUNG WOMEN. 

‘‘ It is such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Heathfield,” 
said Philippa — she had now no fear of herself. She would 
not fall - she felt that she could walk miles. “ I am sure 
that I must have heard Sir George speak of you — perhaps, 
even Mr. Wentworth.” 

“ Who knows ? ” said Sir George. “ Men have spoken 
before now of charming young women met in the Tropics 
— where the influence of the sun makes itself felt, especial- 
ly on the globe-trotters— eh, Wentworth ? By the blessed 
Tropics, he doesn’t look as if he were under the influence 
of that same sun this minute ; he suggests the Antarctic 
circle. Come along, Miss Liscomb, if you don’t mind.” 

“We shall only say au revoir,'" said Philippa. “We 
are certain to meet in the grounds presently.” 

“Oh, certain,” said Alice, smiling and nodding very 
prettily, in response to the smile and nod of Philippa. 

“ If we don’t,” whispered Sir George with a jaunty air 
of shrewdness to Philippa as they strode down the track 
that wound about the mound,— “ if we don’t meet them 
they won’t mind much. He doesn’t seem an over-ardent 
lover ; or perhaps he’s a bit surprised to find his fiancee in 
the same island with him. Surprises are a great mistake; 
but there was no help for her in this matter. They talk 
of a lover’s instinct : I don’t think much of it. Miss Lis- 
comb.” 

“ You think, if it has any existence at all, it should 


202 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


have caused Mr. Wentworth to know the exact moment 
that the steamer in which that pretty girl was a passenger 
had let go its anchor ? ” 

“Quite so — only the P. and 0. steamers don’t let go 
their anchors in dock ; they merely warp through the 
dock gates, and there they are. But she has a lover’s in- 
stinct and that sort of thing, enough for two. How did 
she know that the man on the mound was Wentworth ? 
I believe she’d have known him if it was the Matterhorn 
that he had been climbing.” 

Then Sir George, in the most approved style of the 
society raconteur^ branched off into a story of a climber 
whom he had met on the upper slopes of the Himalayas, 
and who, on hearing of an accident to an Italian party 
that had hoped to discover a new route to the summit of 
the Matterhorn, had said, “ Serve them right for their im- 
pudence ! It’s like the conceit of those foreigners, fancy- 
ing that they could climb a mountain that taxes even an 
Englishman.” 

It was a very amusing story, Philippa said ; and was it 
at the Hills that Mr. Wentworth and Miss Heathfield had 
met ? 

“ Oh, dear, no,” said Sir George. “ It was aboard the 
steamship Cashar last year. The girl went out with her 
dad, who is, you know, the General— second in command 
in the Presidency. Wentworth was taking a trip to make 
himself thoroughly conversant with the Indian Empire 
and the habits and customs of the natives — they’re all 
merely natives in the eyes of your globe-trotter— Hindoos, 
Mahommedans, Eurasians — they’re all alike— natives. 

'These steamers are awful for the susceptible traveller. 
Miss Liscomb — heaven knows how I escaped ! ” 

“ Did you escape ? ” asked Philippa. 

“ I — I — never mind me ; Wentworth didn’t. He left 
England free and unattached, he landed at Bombay in 
irons. He was engaged to her and she was engaged to 
him— in short, they were engaged to each other. That 
was a pretty story to come with to an elderly military 
man who had served his country with distinction in vari- 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


203 


ous parts of the world. They wanted me to break it to 
him — I was taking a run out in the same steamer.” 

“ And of course you broke it to him ? ” 

“ I could not get out of it. I have broken a good many 
things in my time.” 

“Less frangible than an engagement between an at- 
tractive young woman and a young man with perhaps 
some thousands of pounds a year.” 

“ I wonder what you can possibly mean, Miss Liscomb. 
Ah, never mind. The father bore the news like a true 
British officer: he was only a General, but be swore like — 
well, like a Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief. But 
when I said a word or two regarding tlie condition of the 
young man’s estates, he began to look at matters in a rea- 
sonable light. That’s the whole story, my dear Miss Lis- 
comb ; and if they don’t live happy, there’s no reason why 
we shouldn’t.” 

“ Not the least. You are the prince of raconteurs^ Sir 
George : you can contrive to make even a true story in- 
teresting.” 

“I’m sadly out of practice,” said Sir George, in the 
deprecating tone of a billiard player who has been com- 
mended for a stroke. 

“ But I wish to ask you something else,” said Miss Lis- 
comb: “ nothing is left for you but to tell the truth.” 

“ Great heavens ! is it come to that ? ” said Sir George. 

“ In this particular case — yes,” said Philippa. “ I wish 
to ask you if you think the young woman is as much in 
love with him now as she was when they were aboard the 
steamer ? ” 

“ Merciful powers ! ” cried Sir George, stopping short 
on the closely shaven grass over which they were walking. 
“ Merciful powers ! how can I tell that ? As a rule young 
men and maidens~for that matter ” — his voice sunk to a 
whisper— “ middle-aged men and widows— are never quite 
so much in love ashore as they are afloat. But I see no 
reason wdiy she shouldn’t be enough in love with him for 
all practical purposes. As MercTitio said about another 
disaster: ‘ ’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a 
14 


204 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


church door, but ’tis enough ’ ; — yes, one can keep house 
on very little love, though some poet — was it Pope ? — said, 
‘ A little loving is a dangerous thing ’—yes, it was Pope. 
He did a little in that way himself once. That was 
where he made a mistake : a poet is love’s chronicler, 
hut it’s for other people to do the loving. Now, what is 
our amiable host explaining to the group of Introspectors 
about that tree — what sort of a tree is it anyway ? ” 

They had reached a raised x)lot of grass in the centre of 
which a small tree was growing, surrounded by an iron 
guard. The tree conveyed to one the idea of its being en- 
throned, so to speak. It was certainly a most conspicuous 
object in the terra'ced garden. Mr. Wicks was explaining 
with considerable eloquence to a group of his guests— he 
knew the faces of two or three of them — that this tree 
which he delighted to honour was a specimen of the 
American pine from which gum is derived. He had im- 
ported it from the States, and it was his intention to keep 
it always before his eyes, so that he might never forget 
that it was from some earlier growths of the same tree 
that his fortune had sprung. He was the only man in the 
world who had ever discovered a gum sirring, he explained. 
He had not done it by chance — few really great discoveries 
are the result of chance. He had gone to work systemat- 
ically. It had often struck him that, as coal is the product 
of a buried forest, if he could come upon a forest of the 
gum pine that had not been buried long enough to make 
coal, he should be able to pump up the gum which, it 
stood to reason, would be imprisoned with the remnants 
of the forest. E'er some years he had laboured without 
any profitable result; but at last, as everyone knew, he 
had struck gum, and for the past few years there was not 
a lady in the States that had not given herself up to the 
seductive flavour of the dainkf which he provided for the 
fastidious palates of the great nation. 

That was why, as he thought every one was bound to 
admit, he had a right to place that particular plant in a 
plot of honour, far away from the ordinary growths of 
the shrubbery. He added that it had been his inh'ntion 


TilE MAN APPEARS. 


205 


to call any mansion he might purchase in England, Gum 
Tree Hall ; only he had been told that there was a foolish 
story current in some parts of England regarding a gum 
tree and an opossum, which some sportsman holding 
military rank was in the act of shooting when — but per- 
haps some of his kind friends had heard the story : it was 
a senseless one, but so long as it was current and contin- 
ued to suggest a precarious occupancy, he did not think 
lie could reasonably be expected to change the name of 
the residence of a long line of Marquises of Danesfort into 
either Gum Tree Castle, or Gum Tree Hall. 

She listened, smiling with the rest of Mr. Wicks’ 
guests to his simple acknowledgment of the origin of his 
millions. 

It was part of the ordeal that she had to undergo. 

She turned her eyes away in the direction of the 
mound with its half-hidden bower. Were his lips that 
she had felt hot upon her own lips — clinging to her 
cheeks — her eyes — her forehead— were his lips now upon 
the face of that girl who had come quietly, after the man- 
ner of well-bred English girls, between her, Philippa Lis- 
comb, and the man who loved her, Philippa Liscomb ? 

She would not believe it. He would not kiss that girl. 
Oh, how could he kiss that girl while his lips were still 
hot from the kisses of the woman whom he loved ? How 
could he, unless — unless all that she had ever heard re- 
garding the changeable nature of man in the matter of 
loving was true. 

“ He loves me— he loves me — he loves me — me only — 
me only ! ” she kept repeating to herself, while she looked 
towards that mound with the bower among the syringa 
blooms and a wilderness of foxgloves, trying to picture 
the scene that was taking place within the recesses of 
that retreat. The words ‘‘ me only — me only ” kept ring- 
ing in her ears, as though they were the burden of some 
song haunting her after the manner of songs, while Sir 
George Breadmore, with all the airs and graces of the 
raconteur^ dealt with the romantic incidents in the voyage 
of the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Cashar. 


206 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Rien n'est sacre pour un raconteur. Sir George had 
no hesitation in telling her everything that there was to 
be told regarding the romance of that voyage to Bombay, 
and then she had put that strange question to him ; Did 
he think that Maurice Wentworth loved Alice Heathfield 
as well now as he had loved her when they had been to- 
gether aboard the Cashar % 

It was so singular a question that even Sir George 
Bread more had been surprised at it. 

Wliy had she asked such a question ? 

Could he fathom the craving that was in her heart for 
a chance word of comfort— for a word that would give 
some foundation, however precarious it might be, for con- 
tinuing to repeat “ he loves me — me only ” ? Alas ! she 
should have known better than to look for a word of com- 
fort to a man who had won a reputation as a raconteur. 
No comfort had come to her from him ; but still she kept 
repeating those words. If she had not done so — if ev^ery 
beat of her heart had not made the rhythm that those 
words assumed, what would have happened ? Would she 
not have fallen to the ground in the agony of the recol- 
lection of what she had seen — the girl standing there with 
the sunshine about her, to claim as her lover the man whose 
kisses she, Philippa, had felt on her face ? 

It was the thought that he loved her, and her only, 
that had saved her when she had tottered on rising from 
her seat in that secluded arbour; and it was the same 
thought that allowed her to listen, smiling, to Mr. Wicks’ 
story of his life, and to Sir George Breadm ore’s stories of 
other people’s lives — to listen to the strains of the Green 
Scandinavians — to the chat of the people around her, and 
to the cheers of the villagers at the joyful intelligence 
that a large cask of ale would be broached for their re- 
freshment at a part of the grounds not unreasonably re- 
mote from the village — the steward knew that the nearer 
to the village was the spot where the cask was to be 
broached, the better would be the chances of the cottages 
being occupied that night. 

She walked on by the side of Sir George towards the 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


207 


Cattle— many of Mr. Wicks’ guests wlio had listened to 
his story were moving in the same direction. Soon they 
overtook Mrs. Bennett Wyse with Alfred Bentham. 

‘‘ Why are the people cheering ? ” Mrs. Bennett Wysc 
had asked Sir George Breadmore. 

“You should not ask such a question,” replied Sir 
George. “ Surely you know that the British cheer is only 
heard in all its richness and breadth wdien it anticipates 
Beer.” 

Sir George was not a patriot, but an observer. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

BRINGS PHILIPPA TO A FEAST, DURING WHICH HER HEART 
SINGS ANOTHER P^AN. 

In the great dining-hall, three of the panels of which 
were filled up with Alfred Bentham’s pictures of the Last 
Voyage of Odysseus, a company of madrigal singers in 
sixteenth-century costume sang at intervals on a raised 
platform, while Mr. Wicks’ guests partook of a meal that 
was called supper. 

The engagement of the Elizabethan Madrigal Singers 
had been suggested by Mr. Eleazar Y. Wicks, of Eleazar- 
ville. Pa. 

Later in the evening the platform was occupied by 
Miss Babby Baiser, the prettiest and most vulgar of music 
hall artistes, who, in addition to her ability to turn into 
ridicule the most accomplished English vocalists hy her 
trick of parody, had ruined the eldest son of a duke. 

The engagement of Miss Babby Baiser had been sug- 
gested by Lady Annadale, of Clare Street, Mayfair. 

The guests sat at small round tables, each of v/hich ac- 
commodated three person ; the advantage of this being, 
as Madame de Ligueres explained to her friends, that at 
least two persons could sit with their backs to the im- 
promptu stage while Babby Baiser was going through her 


20S 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


antics. The wants of all were carefully attended to by an 
army of waiters, and the champagne was not of Mr. 
Wicks’ choosing. There was thus nothing to which ex- 
ception could be taken : for no one — except perhaps Ma- 
dame de Ligueres, who, being a Frenchwoman, was un- 
usually fastidious in such points— -thought of taking ex- 
ception to the travesties of Babby Baiser, carried on in 
front of the wide eyes, and the stern clear-cut faces of the 
chastely nude maidens of the Greek Island, who looked 
wonderingly out of the panels of the wall. 

It was the painter of the Greek maidens— Babby did 
her own painting— who was the companion of Philippa 
Liscomb at this supper. When he had asked her to give 
him this privilege she had gladly consented. Sir George 
Breadmore seemed to think that he was entitled to attend 
on her ; but she had come to hate him for his skill at giv- 
ing points to stories which were barely worth listening to 
without the points that he introduced, and which were 
thus almost intolerable with the artistic embellishments. 
That was how she accounted for her hatred of the man 
whose coming had ended the only moment of passionate 
happiness that her life had known. He had appeared, 
and her happiness had shrivelled up as men’s lives shrivel 
up at the approach of the Angel of Death. 

But Alfred Bentham was not given to embellish narra- 
tives — he did not even tell any ; and so she sat with him 
and allowed him to choose her supper for her. She found 
him sympathetic, not anecdotal. The moment that she 
seated herself she felt her spirits mount up to a level that 
they had never before attained. That tranquil demeanour 
which seemed to be inseparable from her, gave place to a 
gaiety that was almost childish. She laughed, not in the 
strident tones of a girl who laughs with an effort, but 
joyously, finding even a professional entertainer amus- 
ing. 

Alfred Bentham seemed very happy, looking into her 
face across the little table. She had discovered the cold 
scrutiny — the wide-eyed wonder — the grave disapproval of 
the tricky little woman who kicked up her heels on the 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


209 

stage, manifested by the Greek Maidens of Alfred’s crea- 
tion. 

She pointed it all out to him ; and then he laughed also, 
though perhaps not quite so joyously as she had done. 

“ I’m greatly afraid that the festival of the Introspect- 
ors is like the Day of Innocence — somewhat draggled at 
the skirts,” said he. ‘‘ But wasn’t there a Masque or some- 
thing played during the day somewhere ? ” 

“ The picture was mounted in too elaborate a frame,” 
said she. “We came down here to witness the perform- 
ance of the Introspective Masque ; and here we are watch- 
ing Babby Baiser’s antics, after partaking of lunch, tea, and 
supper.” 

“The Masque formed a good enough excuse for the 
day’s entertainment,” said Alfred. “We cannot expect to 
pick and choose in a manner like this ; we must take one 
thing with another— the Masque with the entertainment — 
the supper and Babby Baiser’s fun. But it has been alto- 
gether a delightful day.” 

“ Oh, yes, altogether a delightful day,” said Philippa. 
“ It will place Introspection on a sounder basis than ever : 
I noticed several newspaper men here and two or three 
Kodakists.” 

“ I saw an interviewer following our host about the 
grounds,” said Alfred. “Mr. Wicks doubled round a 
clump of laurels, and then made for a greenhouse ; but 
the man never lost sight of him. I saw him standing wip- 
ing his forehead at the other door of the greenhouse. Mr. 
Wicks almost walked into his arms ; and I heard him say, 

‘ One moment, Mr. Wicks. Did I understand you gave it 
as your own belief that the Introspectors intend to vote 
solid against the Government at the next general elec- 
tion ? ’ ” 

“ That is the amu&ing thing about the people of this 
great old country of ours,” said Philippa ; “ they allow 
themselves to be carried away on the wave-crest of a 
name. No one knows what the Introspective movement 
really is ; and yet it appears in every newspaper — some 
writers ridiculing it and others declaring that it is the 


210 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


most striking indication that the spirit of nineteenth- 
century researcli is a living thing. You will find that 
the accounts which appear to-morrow of this delightful 
little gathering will begin by claiming Mr. Wicks as an 
earnest Introspector. You recollect how you were prompt- 
ly claimed as one so soon as your pictures were on show, 
and you were known to be a friend of Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse’s ? ” 

“ I would not mind being so claimed, if I might in turn 
claim to be the friend of Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s friends,” 
said Alfred, in a rather more confidential tone than he had 
yet assumed. He had seen that girl, who was now sitting 
before him, when she had been at her hour of deepest sad- 
ness ; he had seen her frequently since that time ; but he 
thought he had never known her in such good spirits. 

He watched her as she laughed at some audacious pan- 
tomime of the fascinating combination of paint and chiffon 
on the little stage. Then it was he felt that, on the whole, 
he would prefer seeing her sad rather than merry. 

She heard his last remark, and the light died out of her 
eyes for an instant — he saw it; and then a new light came 
to those eyes of hers— he saw it — as she looked straight into 
his eyes, saying, 

“ I can only speak for one of Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s 
friends, Mr. Bentham.” 

“ And she does not repudiate my claim ? ” 

“ No,” said she; “ we were friends before we came to- 
gether at Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s.” 

” I do not forget it,” said he. 

Her eyes had turned away from his face quite suddenly. 
She was looking toward one of the doors, and some expres- 
sion of eagerness was in her gaze. He knew that she had 
not heard the words he had just spoken. What was it that 
swallowed up the interest she had m.anifested in his pre- 
vious words ? 

He looked in the direction to which her eyes had turned 
from his face. 

A young girl with soft grey eyes and a pretty figure had 
just entered the room, with Sir George Breadmore at one 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


211 


side, and a tall, slender, yellow-faced, white-monstaclied 
man at the other. The party stood for a few moments at 
the door glancing round the room as if searching for a va- 
cant table. 

Alfred gave an exclamation of surprise. Philippa did 
not seem to hear it. Her eyes never turned from that 
group at the door. 

“ Heavens ! ” said Alfred, “ who would ever have thought 
it?” 

Still she did not turn away her eyes from the group. 
They had found a table and were walking to it. It was 
only a short way from that at which Philippa and Alfred 
were sitting. Then he heard Philippa drawing in her 
breath. He looked at her. 

Why on earth should the light that shone out from the 
depths of the violet of her eyes suggest to him a gleam of 
triumph ? What cause had she to look with triumph in 
her eyes at the young girl who had just entered ? 

There was a gracious smile on Philippa’s face as Alice 
Hoathfield, following her father, passed her chair, giving 
her a pleasant nod of recognition. Sir George Breadmore 
came last. He lingered for a moment beside Philippa, ex- 
pressing the opinion that she had treated him very badly 
ill not waiting for him to choose her supper for her. 

“ I’m not so sure of that,” said she. “ I have had a 
menu delicat — distingue— tres distingue, as Josif said of 
the choice of Monsieur des Prunelles’ little dinner. Is 
your skill as a chooser of suppers to lie dormant ? Are 
you not going to discharge that duty for Miss Heath- 
held ? ” 

“ I daresay that will be my lot. Her father knows noth- 
ing about the art. A dish is flavourless, in his estimation, 
that does not contain a mango or two. ” 

“ You have not seen the carte ? ” said Alfred. “ Mr. 
Wicks is a wonder. He should have remained in the 
States and have become President.” 

“ Didn’t some one say that every American citizen feels 
that he may one day become President ? ” suggested Phi- 
lippa. 


212 


om PAIR DAUGHTER. 


I fancy so : that accounts for the gloomy view so 
many Americans take of their future,” remarked Sir 
George, glancing at the carte. “ It is a 7nenu recherche, 
he added. “ Poor Wentworth ! ” 

“ Why poor ? ” said Philippa, fastening very carefully 
one of the buttons of her glove which she had just drawn 
on her hand. “ Why poor ? ” 

“ To be compelled to run away from so interesting an 
hour in so interesting a day,” Sir George replied. 

“ Has he run away ? ” she asked, looking up, but with 
her fingers still struggling at a button. 

“Yes ; he has run away, poor chap ! I fancy that 
Masque business finished him,” said Sir George. ‘‘ It’s all 
very good fun for the masquers, but they should think of 
othei’ people. Oh, yes ; it was his head, he said — hut 
surely he must have mentioned his indisposition to you 
when he was with you on the mound.” 

■ “ He mentioned nothing of an indisposition.” 

“ It must have come upon him quite suddenly, then. I 
expect it will disappear as quickly ; but I think he was 
right to go back to town at once — London is the best place 
in the world to be sick in.” 

“ His head ? ” said Alfred. 

“ It was splitting, he told me,” said Sir George ; “and 
he certainly looked wretchedly. He wmuld not remain to 
be passed round the banquet after the manner of the 
mummy at the Egyptian feast ; so he stole off quietly to 
the train, and I expect he is in the hands of his doctor by 
this time. He attributed his breakdown to the fact of his 
standing too long in the sun watching that Masque busi- 
ness. But my own idea is ” — here Sir George’s voice sank 
into the most confidential of whispers — “that the surprise 
of seeing that young woman whom he fancied some thou- 
sands of miles away, played the mischief with him. All 
surprises are a mistake unless one is prepared for them. 
He’ll be all right to-morrow, I daresay.” 

Then Sir George hastened on to the table at which 
General Heathfield and his daughter were already seated. 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


218 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

REHEARSES THE SONG OF THE BOWER, WHICH ENDS IN 
A SOB. 

Was it any wonder that the refrain of that heart-song 
of hers should ring louder than ever in her ears : — 

“ He loves me — me only — me only— me only ! ” 

It was a paean of triumph. 

Maurice would not remain with the girl whom he was 
engaged to marry — he could not remain with her— to run 
the chance of being seated by the woman whom he loved. 
He had feigned illness in order to escape from Alice 
Heathfield. 

And then came the thought : 

“ He did not kiss her within the seductive recesses of 
that bower on the mound.'''' 

Somehow this reflection gave her greater satisfaction 
than the thought of his flight. She had been oppressed all 
the evening with the thought of the bare possibility that 
his arms were about that other girl and his lips upon her 
face. Every time that she looked towards that mound— 
and she looked towards it pretty frequently— there came 
to her that diabolical whispered suggestion of the kisses 
and claspings of lovers long severed but now united and 
in each other’s arms within the convenient gloom of that 
bower. 

She did not know what limit should be assigned to the 
capabilities of a man. Would he be capable of kissing 
with passionate lips the lips of the woman whom he loved, 
and then of turning to clasp in his arms another woman 
whom he did not love ? 

She did not know : and she had no one at hand to 
whom she could put such a question. That being so she 
fell back upon her woman’s instinct. 

It was impossible — impossible, she had felt : and she 
had kept on repeating to herself the words, “ It is impos- 
sible,” with such vehemence that she could not help feel- 


214 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


ing that it was possible ; otherwise, she would have no 
need to take so much trouble to prove to herself that it was 
impossible. 

But now all her uneasiness had fled. She felt assured 
on every matter that had perplexed her ; and that was 
why there was a light in her eyes that Alfred Bentham 
interpreted as a light of something akin to triumph, and 
that paean rang in her ears with every beat of her heart. 

“ He loves me — me only — me only ! ” 

“Poor fellow ! poor fellow !’’ murmured Alfred Ben- 
tham almost mechanically. 

(His eyes were not upon Philippa, but upon the girl 
who sat at the third table in front of him.) 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said Philippa. “ And yet— and yet— 
why do you say ‘ poor fellow ’ ? ” 

He looked at Philippa now. 

“I alluded to Maurice Wentworth,” he replied. 

“ And to his tiresome headache ? ” 

“I suppose so. You know his story ? ” 

“ His story ? Heavens ! has he a story ? — is he a man 
with a past ? ” 

“ He is a man with a future.” 

“ Therefore you say ‘ poor fellow ’ ! ” 

Her eyes were now full of the light of girlish merri- 
ment as she looked at him. 

He looked into those eyes with his own very grave ; 
and then he said once more, but after a long pause : 

“Poor fellow ! ” 

He was now thinking how, one Sunday nearly two 
months ago, he had fathomed Maurice Wentworth’s secret. 
Now he had looked into Philippa’s eyes, and they had told 
him what all the world might see in their depths. Mau- 
rice’s secret was that he loved Philippa, and now her eyes 
assured him that she was perfectly indifferent to Maurice. 
If she had been so singularly unfortunate as to love him, 
how could her eyes be full of merriment a moment after 
she had heard that he was ill ? 

That was the question which Alfred Bentham asked 
himself, feeling that it was susceptible of one answer 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


215 


only ; and that was why he had made use of those words 
that suggested his pity for Maurice Wentworth — the man 
who had been unfortunate enough to love a woman who 
remained quite indifferent to him. 

But if a man who has promised to marry one young 
woman is unfortunate enough to fall in love with quite 
another young woman, surely his situation is less deplor- 
able if the second young woman refuses to love him, than 
it would he if she became a party to his treachery. If 
Philippa Liscomb had returned Maurice’s love, the situa- 
tion would have been a truly deplorable one ; but she had 
not (according to Alfred’s interpretation of her face) 
given a second thought to Maurice, thereby leaving him 
free to carry out honourably his promise to Alice Heath- 
field. 

And yet he had said “ poor fellow ! ” and was ready to 
say it again. 

Was it possible that Alfred Bentham was beginning to 
feel that the man who would be most deserving of pity 
was the man on whom Philippa Liscomb would look with 
indifference. 

Was it the perception of his illogical conclusion, or 
was it the perception of its logical aspects, that caused her 
to look at him with laughter in her eyes ? 

“ You fly from an explanation of that hard saying of 
yours, Mr. Bentham ” — here the laughter fled from her 
eyes to her m.outh, leaving its exquisite footprints quiver- 
ing along the way. “ Shall I ask one of your incompa- 
rable Greek maidens for an answer, Mr. Bentham ? ” she 
whispered. “See how they stare at the very suggestion. 
What do they, know, O creator of those maidens whose 
souls are in their eyes ? Do they know that they are eter- 
nal ? Oh, wonderful, is it not, that a man can, by his art, 
create for the world an image that tells us more than the 
man himself knows ! ” 

“ What do the Greek maidens tell you ? ” he asked. 

“ They tell me that they have told you nothing. They 
tell me that the secrets which we share — those maidens and 
I — are still secrets. ” 


216 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“Never mind tlie Greek maidens,” said he, with a 
laugh that was scarcely responsive to her laughter. 
“ Tell me what you think of the English maiden who sits 
before us.” 

“ She is an English maiden,” said Philippa. “ That 
means that she has power to hide what is in her heart.” 

“ What is in her heart ? That is her love of the man 
whom she is going to marry.” 

“ She does not conceal that. I saw her face the mc- 
ment he appeared before' her this afternoon. She loves 
him.” 

“ And did you see his face ? ” asked Alfred, with inar- 
tistic alertness. 

“ Yes, I saw it ; he did not keep his secret either.” 

Alfred actually gave a sigh of relief at her words. He 
was now satisfied that this girl had never guessed Maurice 
Wentworth’s secret, which he, Alfred, had without great 
difficulty fathomed. Yes ; the man was actually simple 
enough to feel assured that he had perceived that Maurice 
Wentworth was in love with Philippa ; and that Philippa, 
who had passed several hours in the company of Maurice 
Wentworth, was living in complete ignorance of that 
fact ! 

His sigh of relief caused her to laugh again, but he 
had an uneasy feeling that there was something enigmat- 
ical about her laugh. It was with a view of getting rid of 
this enigma by ending the conversation on the subject of 
Maurice Wentworth, that he said in a whisper, raising his 
champagne glass an inch or two from the table : 

“Whatever happens, we can wish them happiness. 
Miss Liscomb — Wentworth and the girl who loves 
him.” 

“Yes,” she responded with a touch of gaiety in her 
voice, as she allowed him to put a few drops of champagne 
into her glass. “Yes; our toast is Mi\ Wentworth and 
the girl who loves him — best.” 

“ What did you say ? ” he asked quickly. 

Her lips were on the edge of her glass ; the delicate 
tinge of the lovely wine was trembling and creaming upon 



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THE MAN APPEARS. 


217 


her lips as the full sea trembles and creams against a curve 
of red coral rock. She looked over the edge of her glass 
at him, as he spoke. 

“What did I say ?” she repeated after him. “Why, 
your toast, to be sure. Did not you mean to drink to Mr, 
Wentworth and Miss Heathfield ? Ah, Mr. Bentham, do 
not misjudge her even in thought.” 

“ I will not,” he said slowly. 

“I don’t like the way you say that,” she cried. “If 
you are not satisfied, shall we fill our glasses and 
pledge Mr. Wentworth and the girl whom he loves 
best ? ” 

“ That is the same toast,” said he, after a moment’s 
pause. 

“ Is it ? ” said she, without the pause of a moment. 

“ What ? ” 

“ Let us go,” she said. “ Mrs. Bennett Wyse and Tom- 
my Trafford are certain to be somewhere about. Lady 
Annadale has got a new sunshade carrier — such a nice 
boy ! ” 

“ What has become of the previous holder of the post ? ” 
said Alfred, showing some eagerness in casting to the 
winds any suspicion she might fancy him to have regard- 
ing the last words she had spoken. 

“ Oh,” said Philippa, looking shrewdly around and 
lowering her voice, “ there was a terrible scene, I believe. 
He began to make love to her.” 

“ And she packed him off ? He has clear ground for 
an action for wrongful dismissal.” 

“ You do not understand Lady Annadale. She is 
grossly insulted when any of her lads make love to her. 
At the same time she is dreadfully hurt if they don’t. 
Ask your Greek maidens to tell you all that they know, 
Mr. Bentham.” 

“ Of what. Miss Liscomb ? ” 

“ Of what ? Well, let us say of the extent of the hori- 
zon from a woman’s heart as the centre.” 

“ Look at them,” said Alfred, laying his hand upon 
her arm and pointing to one of his pictures. “Look at 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


218 

them. One maiden faces the hero and points to the blue 
sea.” 

“ That is so, 0 creator of the maidens,” said Philippa. 

“ And the other stands to one side and points to the 
blue heaven,” said he. 

“ I see it — I see it.” 

“ Then they have told you all that they can tell to me 
regarding the love that makes a woman’s heart its home,’’ 
said he. 

“ Let us go,” she said slowly. “ Let us go.” 

They Tvent out upon one of the terraces. The sun had 
set behind a knoll that was well wooded to its summit. 
The soft twilight was overhanging the scene outside the 
castle, giving the people who were on the terraces the feel- 
ing of being in the shadow of a vast tropical leaf. The 
foliage on the knoll seemed black against the lines of 
crimson and orange that were mixed in the West. Above 
the silent trees the white flash of a swallow’s breast cut 
through the twilight as with a knife-blade. Par away 
over the line of the park countless black leaves seemed 
tossing in a wind. The faint cawing that came through 
the still evening told that they were not leaves, but 
rooks. 

It was wdthin half an hour of the time appointed for 
the return of the special trains. Mr. Wicks appeared on 
the terrace, and the Green Scandinavians struck up “ The 
Star-spangled Banner.” 

Mr. Wicks had the curiosity to inquire what that tune 
was that caused his guests to raise their hats, and when he 
heard what it was he raised his hat also. 

He then shook hands with his guests with stately cor- 
diality, and thanked them for coming to visit him, express- 
ing the hope that they would come often — the oftener the 
better. 

Then a thousand electric lights blazed out from among 
the trees, and the flower-beds, and over the torrent, and 
the moat of the Border Tower ; and amid that illumina- 
tion the guests walked to their trains. 

That was the last scene of the day ; and in another 


THE MAN APPEARS. 


219 


couple of hours Philippa Liscomb was lying with her face 
and its passionate tears deep in the hollow of the pillow of 
her bed, crying, in a voice that had no sound, “ Mine alone 
—mine alone, and gone from me for ever — for ever — for 
ever ! ” 




15 


BOOK THE THIRD. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

IS MEANT TO SHOW THAT WITHOUT SELF-POSSESSION THE 
MOST ACCOMPLISHED WOMAN IS PO^VERLESS. 

Yes ; but bad be gone from ber for ever ? 

That was tbe question wbicb came to Pbilippa Liscomb 
with tbe daylight. 

Wby did sbe feel that glow of triumph in tbe great 
dining-ball at Danesfort, if he, in leaving Danesfort owing 
to an unusually severe attack of headache, had gone from 
ber for ever ? Sbe remembered bow triumph bad been in 
her heart at that time — how ber heart bad rejoiced greatly 
to feel that be loved ber and her only. 

Where then was the sense of her prostration and her 
passionate tears on returning to Battenberg Gardens ? 
Where then was the sense of her wild cry that he was 
gone from her for ever ? 

Sense ? If sense was the controlling influence of a 
woman in love, parents and guardians would have an easy 
time of it. If reason was represented in even the smallest 
measure in the way of a man wuth a maid, Solomon would 
not have acknowledged himself baffled in his attempts to 
make something out of it. It is this attempt to reconcile 
one’s course of action when in love with the dictates of 
sense and reason that leads to destruction ; and Philippa 
Liscomb was wise enough to abandon it. 

She felt that her tears had been not merely unneces- 
( 220 ) 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


221 


sary, but idiotic. Maurice Wentworth loved her, she was 
assured : he might at one time have fancied that he loved 
that sweet girl who had come to him across the ocean 
and through the Canal ; but he did not love her any 
more — at least, not with the love that he had given 
to another woman, whose interests were very much 
more to Philippa Liscomb than the interests of Alice 
Heathfield. 

For some hours on the morning following the wonder- 
ful fete at Danesfort, she lay back on the little sofa in her 
room with a book on her knees, and her thoughts turned 
upon her own interests, rather than upon the interests of 
any one else. 

“ He is mine— mine — mine ! ” she cried, striking the 
back of her book with her hand at each exclamation. 
“ Let her look to herself — let her fight her own battles, and 
vae victis ! If she was not strong enough to keep his love, 
she cannot complain. One must be the guardian of one’s 
own love.” 

She swept aside whatever feeling of compassion she 
may have inclined to, in regard to the other girl — and it 
must be confessed that she had such a feeling — she did not 
pause to consider how she herself would feel were she in 
the other girl’s place ; coming home from India to put 
herself into the arms of the man who had asked her to 
love him, and who had promised to love her. No ; she 
felt that she was not to blame for the existence of that 
scheme of nature whose motto is Vce Victis. 

And then came a thought as to the worthiness of the 
man to secure whom she was content to fling away the 
doctrines of Christianity and accept the doctrines of 
paganism. What man was this who had not hesitated to 
rnake her believe that he loved her, while all the time he 
was pledged to love some one else whom he thought to be 
thousands of miles away ? Where was the high principle 
of such a man ? Where was his sense of honour — of 
truth — of self-respect ? Where was his sense of respect 
either for the girl who was afar or the one who was at 
hand ? 


222 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


He had behaved basely, and he had not had Hie cour- 
age to face the consequences of his baseness. He had 
sprung from the side of the woman whose face he had 
covered with kisses at the approach of the other, and then 
— then 

Then all the thought of the baseness of Maurice Went- 
worth was lost in the assurance that he had not put his 
arm about Alice, nor had he kissed her. What did it mat- 
ter to Philippa how great had been the sum of his treach- 
ery, so long as she had that blessed assurance that he had 
not covered Alice Heathfield’s face with kisses as he had 
done hers, Philippa’s ? This was the one virtue which, 
in her estimation, not only blotted out all his baseness, but 
left a handsome balance of worthiness to his credit into 
the bargain. 

She had no assurance, except that which her owm feel- 
ing afforded her, that he had not kissed Alice in precisely 
the way that he had kissed her. Philippa ; and yet she felt 
perfectly satisfied that the basis of her forgiveness of him 
was well founded — that she did well to continue loving 
him, and esteeming him more highly than she did any 
man in the wmrld. 

‘‘ Come to me, my love, my love ! ” she cried with a 
voice that was tremulous wfith passion. “ Come to me — 
come to me ! ” She remembered how she had thrilled be- 
neath his kisses with such joy as she had never felt before, 
and she was hungering for his lips again. She had ac- . 
cepted the motto of paganism as her guide and as the jus- 
tification of her life, and, doing so, she had no choice but 
to fall under the other influences of paganism. “Come 
to me — come to me ! ” she cried. 

And he came to her. 

When her maid entered with the intelligence, conveyed 
to her from the page,. who derived it originally from one 
of the footmen, that Mr. Wentworth was w^aiting to see 
her and inquiring if she w^as at home, she did not start. 
She only said, 

“ How tiresome ! Did not Mrs. Bennett Wyse say that 
he would not be here until after lunch ? ” 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 223 

“ She did not say so to me,” replied the maid. “ Per- 
haps she did to Fanchette. Shall I inquire ? ” 

“ No, no ; he is here now, and it cannot he helped,” 
said Philippa. The Indian room, tell the man.” 

The maid went off to tell the page to tell the footman 
that Mr. Wentworth was to be shown into the Indian room 
— an apartment far removed from the three drawing-rooms 
in which Mrs. Bennett Wyse was accustomed to receive 
her guests. It represented one of Mrs. Bennett Wyse's 
whims in furnishing : all the hangings of the room were 
Oriental embroideries, and every article of furniture was 
of Indian carving. The hammered brasses and the old 
lacquers — the tortoise shells, the mother-o’-pearls, and the 
ivories of the Orient were here in abundance, while placid 
goddesses and grinning gods, worked in silver and inlaid 
with gold, stood on brackets and pedestals around. xAn 
Indian wave was passing over England the year that Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse had planned this room of hers : there was 
no house worth talking about that had not its Indian room, 
furnished with more or less completeness ; but the wave 
had passed, and the Indian rooms were, as a rule, left 
stranded. Now and again, however, people w^ere shown 
into this apartment in Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s house, so that 
there was nothing odd in Philippa’s order to have her 
visitor led into the midst of its treasures. 

It was not until she was on the stairs that she began to 
wonder what had induced her to name the Indian room 
for this interview. Why had she chosen to surround him 
with things that could not but force him to recall the days 
which (she supposed) he had passed by the side of the girl 
who had promised to become his wife ? She felt that she 
had unwittingly handicapped herself, so to speak, in the 
contest upon which she was about to enter — a contest upon 
which she believed all the happiness of her future life to 
be dependent. 

She paused only for a inomcnt, and then made a little 
contemptuous motion with one of her hands. She felt 
that if she could not afford to give Alice Heathheld what- 
ever advantage there might be in this matter, it would be 


224 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


wiser for her to remain in that easy attitude which she had 
assumed on her sofa, and to send Maurice Wentworth a 
message that she was not at home. 

The moment that her maid had told that he was wait- 
ing downstairs her heart cried out, 

“ I shall see him — I shall see him ! ” 

That was a certain good. Whatever might be the re- 
sult of her interview with him, she would see him, and 
that was the best thing that could happen. She had not 
dressed for lunch : Mrs. Bennett Wyse was lunching wuth 
some friends at the other side of the town, and Philippa 
had not intended leaving her room until late in the after- 
noon. She wore the simplest of lace robes, and her hair had 
become tossed through a long and uneasy contact with the 
pillow of her sofa — she saw, as she passed a glass, that one 
heavy strand had fallen down beyond her neck. She 
paused for a moment, for the golden strand w^as somewhat 
wisp-like — only for a moment, however ; she did not touch 
her hair. She felt too proud to make any attempt to ap- 
pear attractive in his eyes. She would conquer without 
armour. 

A footman, gorgeous as a tropical sunset, opened the 
door of the Indian room. The door was closed upon her 
before the man grinned. He had his own opinion of the 
Introspectors, and he had witnessed too many phases of 
the society which is flanked by footmen, to be surprised at 
anything that came under his notice ; but he had never 
yet seen a young woman receive a young man when 
wearing a lace boudoir robe, and with her hair ready to 
drop about her shoulders. 

“ I was so sorry — we were all so sorry to hear of your 
headache,” she began. “ I suppose it w^as standing in the 
sun while that funny thing was being performed that 
caused you to be overcome. Sir George Breadmore told 
us of your indisposition ; and we all agreed that you did 
well to go aw^ay, even though you missed the .subtleties of 
Miss Babby Baiser’s travesties. And the supper— it w^as— 
but I daresay you heard all about it before nightfall.” 

He kept his eyes flxed upon her face while she spoke 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


225 


fluently if not rapidly. Then he took a few steps and 
stood in front of her. 

‘‘Philippa,” he said, “you know all now.” 

She looked at him ; and then all at once, and without 
giving the least sign of weakness, she turned, threw her- 
self on her knees beside the carved sofa, and buried her 
face upon one of the cushions, sobbing passionately. 

This was a manifestation for which he had not been 
prepared ; but it did not take him nearly so much by sur- 
prise as it did Philippa herself. If there was one thing 
upon which she believed her knowledge to be perfect, it was 
her own nature ; the fact being that this subject had inter- 
ested her above all other subjects. She had never gone so 
far as to fancy that it was the only subject worth attention 
in the world ; but she had certainly given more attention 
to it than to any other. And yet if it had been suggested 
to her that she w^as capable of responding only with the 
tears of a woman and the sobs of a child to the first words 
uttered in her presence by this man, she would have 
laughed the suggestion to scorn. 

Tears and sobs she believed to be the weapons of such 
sweet girls as the one who had not been clever enough to 
retain the love of her lover ; she knew that tears are the 
most powerful element in the armament of the common- 
place woman ; and being perfectly assured that she had 
nothing in common with the commonplace woman, she 
would have refused to entertain the question of the possi- 
bility of her being affected to tears, simply through hear- 
ing that man speak. 

She lay there, however, in the sway of her tears, and at 
the mercy of some Influence of whose existence she had 
never previously been made aware. It seemed to herself 
that a great change had come over her. She had read of 
the change of which Christian the Pilgrim was aware 
when the great burden that had been upon his shoulders 
had fallen away at the Cross. It seemed to her that 
with her tears there dropped away from her such an op- 
pression. 

The moment that she fell he sprang beside her. He 


226 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


was about to kneel beside her — to put his arms about that 
weak thing' that lay dissolved in tears at his feet, but he 
suddenly started back. 

“ God pity me — God pity me ! ” he cried as he threw 
himself into a chair, burying his face in his hands. 

There was a silence in the room. 

When he started from his chair, she had not strength 
to raise her head. Her face was still upon the great down 
cushion. The glorious colours of the Persian embroidery 
that covered it made a wonderful setting for her shapely 
head. The loose tress that lay upon the cushion seemed 
part of the golden embroidery. 

“ Philippa,” he cried, ‘‘ Philippa, my love, my love ; for 
God’s sake hear me. . . . Philippa, my love, my love, 
there is no one in the world whom I love except you.” 

She was sensible of no thrill of triumph at his words, 
in spite of the fact that, half an hour before, the very 
thought that he loved her and not Alice Heath field, had 
thrilled her with a joy not far short of rapture. 

“ My love, Philippa, you will look up and listen to me,” 
he said in low tones tremulous with passion. ‘‘ I did not 
mean to speak to you a word of love, but the words w^ere 
forced from me. I knew that I had no right to speak to you 
a word of love, although I knew also that it was my doom 
to love you and you only — and now— now I came to you 
to entreat your forgiveness and then to go away. I can- 
not do that now. I will tell jmu again and again that 1 
love you — I love you— only you, Philippa, my love, my 
life ! Oh, what do I care about honour, or truth ? What 
do I care about treachery, or perfidy, or baseness ? What 
do I care about anything that the woHd can say about 
me ? What do I care about the opinion of earth or heaven 
or hell if you tell me that you love me ? And you do — 
you do — Philippa.” 

He had dropped on his knees beside where she knelt on 
the floor, and put his arms around her. 

In an instant she was on her feet. She tossed back the 
loose strand of her hair. Unfalteringly she put out a 
hand to him — he had also risen. 


THE WOxMAK ACTS. 


227 


“ Good-bye,” she said, “ Good-bye.” 

There was not a falter in her voice. 

He was startled more even than he had been when she 
had fallen sobbing at his feet. 

He put his hand slowly into hers after a long pause, 
during which each looked into the other’s face. 

” I take your hand,” he cried ; “ but not to say good- 
bye.” 

“I say it. Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye to every one— to everything in the world but 
you, my dearest, that is what I mean — that is what you 
must mean,” 

She made a little motion with a hand. 

“ It is what you mean,” he continued. “ Listen to me, 
Philippa. You love me — you have told me so in language 
that cannot be misinterpreted — and you know that I love 
you. What is there that shall separate us ? Nothing in 
heaven or hell or earth can doit. We love— we love — 
that is enough for us.” 

“ Good-bye,” she said again without faltering, 

“ I hold myself to be bound only to you. Nothing 
binds except love ; and where it binds, none can loosen. 
If we are married to-morrow who shall be able to separate 
us ? ” 

She looked at him for a moment. He saw the joy of 
the temptation in her eyes. He thought he had con- 
quered. 

“ Yes, I see your love in your eyes,” he cried. “ You 
are mine ! mine ! mine ! ” 

“ Madness ! ” she cried. “ Oh, this is madness ! Lis- 
ten to me. If you have any heart — any love in your heart 
— any sense of what is due to me — to her — to yourself, you 
will go away.” 

“You love me — I know it — and yet you say those 
words ! ” 

“ I love you ? Do I ? I do not know whether my feel- 
ing for you is love or hate.” 

“ Philippa — my Philippa ! *’ 

“ Oh, man, wdiat sort of a woinan do you believe me to 


228 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


be ? How can you fancy that I would be content to build 
my happiness upon the ruin of another woman’s love ? 
Go to her — she trusts you. Keep your word to her. That 
is all there is left for you — for you and for me.” 

“ I came here to-day to tell you that I meant to keej) 
my word ; and to ask your forgiveness for the wrong I 
did you ; but I repeat, I cannot do that now. I want you, 
Philippa, my love — I know that now— I do not want to be 
thought honourable, or faithful, or true. I only want to 
be faithful to love— true to my own heart. I want you, 
Philippa. Come to me, my love ! ” 

She looked at him. Passion was in every word that he 
uttered. His was the supreme abandonment of passion. 
For a moment she felt that it would be ridiculous for her 
to think that she could struggle against this. Her eyes 
half closed ; she put out her hands to him — but when, 
with a cry, he put out his’ to meet them, she brought her 
hands together with a wild impulse, and interlaced her 
fingers. 

It was an attitude of imploration. 

“ Go, go, go ! ” she cried. “ Oh, I implore you to go 
away. Your way is in one direction, and it is not my 
way.” 

“ That is your last word ? ” he said. 

“My only word — my only word until I die.” 

“ Oh, God, that it ever should come to this ! ” he cried, 
turning away with the gesture of a man on whom despair 
has laid hold. 

The Persian cushion in which her head had been buried 
was on the sofa, still bearing the impression she had made 
upon it — the fabric had been a mould for her face. He 
caught up the cushion and passionately pressed his face to 
where her face had been. 

With a cry as of pain she sprang to his side. Her hands 
clasped his arm as they had done once before. 

“ Not that, but me,” she whispered with streaming eyes. 
“ Kiss me, my love, kiss me ! ” 

The cushion fell to the floor. His arms were about her. 
His mouth was upon hers. She clung to him. 





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She had flung herself down on the cushion. P. 229 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


229 


Their kisses sounded like sobs. 

When she spoke it was in the voice of one who is cry- 
ing out while being strangled. 

‘‘ Go— for God’s sake — my love — for God’s sake ! ” 

She had freed herself, and now she had flung herself 
down on the cushion, and her arms were stretched out over 
the fabric of the sofa, her hands clasping the carved mango 
leaves at the back. 

Did she hear a voice that said, 

“ I will go. But whatever may happen, never think 
that I have turned away from loving you. I have never 
loved any one else, and I never shall love any one else.” 

There was a long silence in the room. It was broken 
by the sound of the closing of the door. 

She was on her feet in the middle of the room — all her 
hair was now streaming over her shoulders and running 
like rivulets in the sunshine after a deluge, over the lace 
in front of her robe, and in one great tossed cataract down 
her back. 

She looked around the room as if she actually expected 
to see him still there ; and it seemed as if she was aston- 
ished at not finding him. She mechanically put up one 
hand to her forehead, as a person does who is trying to real- 
ise something that has just taken place. 

“ My love — my love ! ” she whispered. “ Oh, he can- 
not have left me ! He must come hack — he must come 
back — it is not too late — I shall call him back.” 

She rushed to the door and flung it open. She grasped 
i\\Q portiere as if to dash it back. She stood there irresolute. 

The portiere dropped from her hand. She staggered 
back into the room and seated herself on the sofa, her eyes 
staring at a great silver idol that smiled placidly down at 
her from a bracket of cld lacquer — she stared at that image 
as if its face presented a problem to her which she vainly 
attempted to read. 

‘‘ Why — why — why ? ” she said. 

After an hour’s silence the same puzzled look was on 
her face, and again she said those words : 

“ Why — why — why ? ” 


230 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER II. 

COMMENCES WITH A QUESTION AND ENDS WITH A SORT OF 
ANSWER. 

What on earth had come over her ? 

When she was going to her bed that night she found 
herself face to face with the problem that the silver idol 
seemed to have suggested to her, wearing all the time the 
tolerant smile of one to whom the actions of men and 
women embody no mystery. 

What on earth had come over her ? 

Slie had, as is already known, left her room to meet 
Maurice Wentworth, in the determination that, as the girl 
whom he had promised to marry had not been clever 
enough to keep him faithful to her, she, Philippa, would 
accept the love which she felt sure he had come to offer 
her. She meant to enjoy her triumph to the full. The 
spolia formed a very important element in a triumj)!! ; and 
the spoils were to the strong. 

She was the strong. 

And yet, instead of acting consistently with what she 
believed— instead of making the endeavour to realise her 
intention— she had sent Maurice Wentworth to the arms 
of the girl who had not been strong enough or clever 
enough or beautiful enough to keep him true to her. 

What on earth liad come over her ? 

The chance had been offered to her, and she had quietly 
put it aside, as though she had failed to perceive it before 
her — as though she were an ordinary girl, without the 
capacity to perceive the magnitude of the opportunity that 
had presented itslf ! 

It was a mystery to her. If she had not understood 
herself so thoroughly as she felt assured she did, a moder- 
ately reasonable solution of the problem might have sug- 
gested itself to her : it was because she was so well aware 
of her own powers — of her own capacity to carry out to 
the very end any scheme of life which she might plan for 


TnE WOMAN ACTS. 


231 


herself— she felt so utterly unable to account for the 
course she had pursued that day, after she had made up 
her mind that it was necessary for her to pursue just the 
opposite course. 

She felt something akin to self-contempt at that mo- 
ment. She could tolerate anything except weakness — the 
weakness that dissolves itself in tears ; so that now, recol- 
lecting how she had lain along the floor weeping and sob- 
bing like a child, she became moi’e and more impatient 
with herself. 

Like many other persons, she had been accustomed to 
account for certain phenomena of evil, so to speak, on the 
assumption that the individuals through the medium of 
whom they had been manifested, had been given over to 
the power of the devil for a season. 

It did not occur to her that now and again God 
had His chance as well as the devil with a human 
soul. 

She could scarcely sleep for the impatience she felt on 
thinking that she could make no attempt until the morn- 
ing to counteract her weakness of this day. She could 
not write to him — telegraph to him— to come to her, before 
the morning. She would do it then, however; she had 
reiterated that word “ go — go-go ! ” when face to face 
with him — she clenched her hands with im]3atience as she 
lay on her bed and thought over the way in which she 
had harped on that word “ go ” with maddening persist- 
ency — but in the morning she would send him the 
word “come— come — come!” and he would come to 
her. 

Then she recalled the overwhelming joy of that mo- 
ment spent while his arms were about her — while he held 
her so close to him that she could not breathe — and crushed 
the kisses upon her mouth. The very thought of that 
glorious moment thrilled her as she lay. She felt her 
face become hot where his face had touched it. She put 
her hands upon her bare bosom, and felt again the pain 
of his clasping of her — pain ? pain ? She flung aside the 
coverlet, and stretched out her white arms into the black 


232 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


night, giving the low laugh of love, and whispering into 
the darkness, “ Come— come ! ” 

There was none to see that maiden glory of ivory that 
glowed and became roseate with the di’eam of love that a 
maiden cannot comprehend, because it is an ecstacy. 
There was none to see the white lily glowing to theAint 
of the red rose. 

And the darkness of the summer night passed, and 
the soft dawn stole where it could through the cur- 
tain spaces of the chamber; and then the sunlight 
found a chink through which a delicate gold javelin 
was flung upon her pillow, and quivered among the 
scattered gold threads of her hair, and afterwards fell 
aslant upon the tossed lace that was parted at the hollow 
of her throat. 

But there was none to see. 

There was no one to look with eyes of love upon the 
flgure of the woman who had fallen asleep without being 
able to fathom the mystery of her own impulse in the di- 
rection of good, though she had set her feet on the path 
leading to evil. 

When she awoke the same impatience to bring him 
back to her possessed her. She came to the conclusion, 
however, that a letter to him would he sufflcient— there 
would be no need to send him a telegram. The letter 
should contain but the one word “ Come.''' He would un- 
derstand all that was meant— he would know the remorse 
that she felt at having sent him away — he would know 
the yearning that she had to see him again; he would 
come to her, and then . . . and then. . . 

Her imagination was not equal to the duty she imposed 
upon it to supply her with some of the details, not of their 
meeting— she had a pretty good idea what would be the 
chief elements of their meeting- but of the days following 
their meeting. Was he to marry her, and forsake the 
other girl ? Were he and she to face the things that peo- 
ple would say of them ? They would call him a con- 
temptible scoundrel, and her a miserable adventuress. 
She would have to count upon this. She did count upon 


TtlE WOMAN ACTS. 


233 


it, and she felt slightly uneasy during the mental opera- 
tion necessary for the calculation. 

Then she flung all calculations and all considerations 
to the winds. 

“ I shall see him — I shall he with him — I shall meet his 
kisses with mme.’’^ 

That was enough for her. No matter what the future 
might have in store for her, the Kiss would have been 
passed between them — that was enough for her. 

She was in that state when the prospect of a kiss im- 
mediately seems better than the promise of heaven for 
eternity. 

It is thus that the human heart sells the human soul, 
and chuckles over its bargain. 

Yes— for a while. 

She started up from her cup of chocolate, and hastened 
to the little writing-table. She was afraid that her eager- 
ness for the kiss might diminish ; and then she might 
have her soul left on her hands, as it were. She did not 
believe that she would ever be able to get the same price 
for it again. 

The literary labour necessary for the production of a 
letter containing one word only cannot possibly be re- 
garded as excessive; and yet, when she had dipped her 
pen in the ink, she did not even get through the mechan- 
ical work of dating a sheet of writing paper. She sat there 
with her head on her hand until the ink dried upon the 
pen. Then she dipped it into the ink bottle again and 
straightened the paper in front of her. The ink dried once 
more without the pen being put to the paper. 

She threw down the pen and sprang from her chair. 
She stood leaning her chin upon her hand, while her 
elbow rested upon the mantel-shelf. There was a little 
mirror on the wall — a Venetian marvel— and all that it 
reflected in her sight was the lace front of her robe. When 
she saw how crushed and disorderly it was — at one part 
the lace w^as torn— she felt her face burn with a recollec- 
tion of the previous day. 

She would have her kiss. 


234 : 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


She ran to the writing-table, and in an instant she had 
written her letter. 

“ Come— come — come ! ” 

She thrust it hastily into an envelope and wrote his 
name upon it. Then she took it off the blotter, went to 
the bell and pressed it. 

Her maid would attend, and in another minute the let- 
ter would be on its way to her lover. 

She stood beside the mantel-piece once more ; and after 
a moment of irresolution, she utilised the time that was 
bound to elapse before the coming of her maid by tearing 
the letter into small pieces, which she threw into the 
depths of a Chinese vase that stood on the floor. 

Then the maid entered. 

“ Be good enough to see if Mrs. Bennett Wyse has 
read to-day’s Masks and Faces, and if so bring it to me,” 
she said. 

The maid tripped off. 

“ I cannot do it — I cannot do it unless I tell him of the 
deception I practised,” said Philippa, standing in the mid- 
dle of the room. “ Ob, my God, it seemed .so small a thing 
a week ago; but now I feel that it is great enough to bar 
me for ever out from all happiness in life. I must tell 
him — I must tell him ; and if I do, I shall never see him 
again — never again ! Oh, my God, my punishment is 
greater than I can bear ! ” 

She seated herself on her sofa with her hands locked 
together behind her head. 

She was thinking how she had by her own cleverness 
devised the scheme by which her father had escaped from 
the consequences of his fraud — she was thinking of the 
fraud which she had perpetrated in order to make people 
believe that the man who was lying dead in the room in 
the inn at Steeplecross was her father. Her cleverness ! 

She was beginning to fathom the mystery of her recent 
action. The love which she bore Maurice was at least 
true ; and while that love dwelt in her, she was pervaded 
with its truth. 

Her maid returned with a copy of Masks and Faces 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


235 


published that morning, and with a few letters which had ^ 
just been delivered. Philippa thanked her, and gave her 
some instructions regarding her afternoon toilette. 

One letter was from Pelise de Ligueres ; another had a 
broad black border on it, and was in the stately round 
hand of Teddy Haven ; the third was in the handwriting 
of Maurice Wentworth — she had only seen his hand- 
writing in the reply he had written to Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse’s invitation, but she had not forgotten it. 

She glanced through Madame de Idgueres' scribble, 
which was about nothing in particular, but contained 
some very diverting double entendre; then she tore open 
Teddy’s cover. Alas ! poor Sir Joshua had died three 
days before, and Teddy w^as in great grief in consequence 
— such great grief that he felt it impossible for him to re- 
main in Baymouth longer than another month. He hoped 
that he would have a chance of seeing his dear Phil in 
London, as his physicians were quite unanimous in the 
opinion that a change to that town would have a most 
beneficial effect upon him. 

Philippa thought of Sir Joshua’s threat to disinherit 
his son if he married her. Poor Sir Joshua ! She did 
not think any evil of him. 

Then with a beating heart she opened Maurice’s letter. 

“J must see you agaw,” the man wrote. I cannot 
live without seeing you^ and pleading for my love — for 
cur love. Oh., my beloved, you will not cut off both your- 
self and me from the happiness ivhich cannot fail to be 
ours whatever may happen. I will come to you at four 
o'clock. You ivill see me. ” 

She lay back on the sofa. 

‘‘ I will see you — I will see you, my darling,” were the 
words that sprang to her lips. ‘‘I give in. I cannot re- 
sist this happiness which comes knocking at my door and 
begging for entrance. I did not send for him ; I think I 
would have held out. Now, it is too late. Come what 
may, I am his and he is mine — mine— mine for ever.” 


16 


.236 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

CARRIES A READER OVER A CRISIS. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse came to her in the course of half 
an hour. ^ 

Had Phil seen the reference in Masks and Faces to the 
entertainment at Danesfort, she wished to know. 

Phil said she had not yet had time ; the fact being that 
she had received a couple of letters — one of them was from 
Felise. 

“ It does not leave you much to think over after wai'ds,’’ 
said the Queen Poppy. 

“No,” said Phil ; “hut one that I have got from Teddy 
Haven does.” 

“ Teddy Haven ? Who on earth is Teddy Haven ? ” 

“ You remember Teddy — the nice bright boy who came 
to see me, and who saw you instead and was comforted 
for my absence ? ” 

“ Oh, of course. Merciful powers ! he is not dead ? ” — 
she saw the black-edged envelope. 

“ No ; on the contrary he is alive. That is how I come 
to get the letter from him. His father has just died.” 

“ Oh ; I think you mentioned that he was in comfort- 
able circumstances.” 

“ He was so reported in Bay mouth. But then it is not 
easy to judge correctly on these points in Baymouth. I 
have known of some men who were by repute million- 
aires, but who died leaving their relations only a legacy of 
debts.” 

“ You may depend upon it, the boy is left well off, or 
he would not be in such haste to write to you.” 

She laughed the laugh of the woman who has lived in 
the world some years, and has employed her faculties of 
observation to the uttermost. Phil joined her, after a 
decent interval. 

“ Even though it’s only a couple of hundred thousand 
pounds, it’s still something,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 287 

“ It’s your generosity that causes you to look at it from 
that standpoint,” said Phil. 

‘‘ Therefore ” again Mrs. Bennett Wyse laughed 

meaningly. 

“ Yes,” said Phil ; “ I quite agree with you. What a 
blessing it is to be settled in life ! No more anxiety re- 
garding the future— no more need to trick out oneself in 
garments that give one an advantage over the other com- 
petitors in the game.” 

‘‘ What ! is Phil also among the Introspectors ? My 
dear child, do not dabble in these matters. They are not 
for the social wing of the Introspectors — only the Horace 
Westerns— the cheap satirists of the movement — the nov- 
elists, who have shown us women what wonderful crea- 
tures we are — the Finnish dramatists, who deal with our 
Xii’oblem souls — it is only along the shores of the Baltic 
that the great mysteries of life are made plain — and the 
evolutionists, who have put woman into the crucible, and 
have provided the world with a formula for analysing the 
residuum to five places of decimals.” 

“ I suppose it is not for the thing that’s being analysed 
to make a move on its own account,” said Philippa. 

‘‘Certainly not,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “Great 
heavens ! where would the demonstrator be if the equilat- 
eral triangle which he draws for his class with the letters 
A B C at each point, were to shuffle itself— to lift up one 
shoulder, it may be, and become some other sort of a tri- 
angle— I forget what the names of the others are. No, if 
you are a woman you’ll just lie still while they analyse 
your soul. They are at it now— dozens of soul-analysts; 
it gives them employment, and it doesn’t do us any harm 
— only somehow it doesn’t lead to marriage, which is 
rather a pity.” 

“ I don’t suppose that many men would care to espouse 
a note of interrogation,” said Phil. She remembered the 
first conversation she had had in London with Maurice 
Wentworth. 

“Or a splendid possibility — some one said the other 
day that a girl was a Splendid Possibility. It was a worn- 


238 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


an who said it. I sent her a ticket for an Introspective 
‘ At Home.’ I thought that the Introspectors should make 
an attempt to annex the phrase ‘a splendid possibility.’ 
Seriously, my dear Phil, if we don’t get up a marriage or 
two our popularity will he jeopardised.” 

“ A judicious divorce, properly stage-managed, would 
still keep us in the leading articles.” 

“ It would do a world of good. Still, I think we should 
try the marriage first ; and therefore ” 

“ Therefore I should keep my eye on Teddy Haven ? ” 

“ What a treasure you are ! One does not need to 
worry at you. You grasp the idea in a moment. Now, 
look at the pictures in Masks and Faces before we go out 
for our drive. The view of the dining-hall at Danesfort is 
not bad, only I fancy that I’ve seen it some place before. 
The scene on the lawn seems to have done yeoman’s serv- 
ice in the past ; but, of course, the blocks have been 
touched up. The sleeves of the gowns- are this year’s 
sleeves; but the collars, unfortunately, are those of the 
year before last. Happily they have made you and me 
all right in the portrait page. The others are smudges. 
Oh, there’s nothing like sending the photos to the papers 
three weeks in advance. One should have some regard 
for the poor editors. That scene on the lawn was printed 
off a week ago ; the conscientious papers won’t have any- 
thing about the entertainment until next week ; that’s how 
Masks and Faces is beating the conscientious ones out of 
the field. Now I’ll ring for Fidele, and be ready in twenty 
minutes.” 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse left the room, and then Philippa 
took Maurice Wentworth’s letter from beneath the sofa 
cushion and read it again. She thought over what her 
hostess had said about marriage and its bearing upon the 
future of Introspection as a going concern ; and after some 
thought she said, looking at the letter: 

“ Let him come.” 

It was not at Teddy Haven’s letter she was looking. 

In less than half an hour she was seated by the side of 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse in the victoria, on her way to the 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


239 


Park; and the country cousins wlio stood behind the rail- 
ings felt themselves to be quite in the whirl of the best 
London society when they were able to recognise the face 
of the beautiful girl with the red gold hair. That was 
Miss Liscomh,” they said among themselves. “ She was 
even handsomer than her portrait that had formed the 
celebrated pictorial supx3lement tvo months ago.” The 
country cousins were not so sure of the identity of the 
pretty little lady who sat beside Miss Liscomb ; for Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse’s portrait had never been produced except 
in black and white, and no one could be expected to recog- 
nise the original of a black and white portrait that has ap- 
peared in a weekly paper. 

The victoria stopped at the usual place, and three or 
four men crossed to it and had a chat with Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse and a word or two with Philippa. Then General 
Heathfield came up on horseback, giving onlookers the 
idea that he should like nothing better than to get an 
order to clear the Park with a troop of cavalry. In a few 
minutes Sir George Breadmore with Alice Heathfield ap- 
peared on foot. The girl looked very pale but extremely 
pretty, and she was certainly well dressed, as Mrs. Ben- 
nett Wyse perceived with one of those critical and all- 
embracing glances which enable a woman to take in as 
many details in the attire of a sister as would occupy the 
average man half an hour to enumerate inaccurately. 

The fact was, of course, that Miss Heathfield had been 
sensible enough to place herself in the hands of an accom- 
plished modiste, and she was thus on a competitive level 
with the survivors of the London season. 

Sir George’s story this day had reference to a clergy- 
man who, if shaky on the Thirty-nine Articles, was sound 
on ’34 port. It was very short and seemed full of point 
to such persons as were acquainted with the methods of 
the narrator. 

He told it to Philippa while Mrs. Bennett Wyse was 
insisting on Miss Heathfield’s taking a seat in the victoria 
in order to be brought to Battenberg Gardens to lunch. 
Sir George assured the hesitating girl that he would not 


240 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


be hurt at her desertion of him. As a matter of fact lie 
had an appointment with a man at the Fulta Fisher Club 
in Piccadilly; and the transfer of the girl to the care of 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse would enable him, he said, to retain 
the character for punctuality which he had won by long 
years of self-abnegation. 

The general ottered no objection, and only regretted 
that his engagements did not allow of his being picked up 
by the enthusiastic lady who had just told him that she 
came into the Park every day solely for the purpose of 
picking up people to lunch with her. 

As Alice was getting into the victoria, an effect was 
produced at the ofiP-side as of a sunset in the tropics. It 
was only Tommy Trafford’s coach that was passing, the 
sun playing upon the vivid crimson of the panels. 

It would have been unwise for the driver of the four 
bays to make the attempt to pull them up just at that part 
of the Row, What he did consider wise to do was to lean 
over the box and sing out, 

“ Don’t forget the match— three thirty ! ” 

The general’s horse showed signs of resenting this off- 
hand treatment, and so did the general. The horse had, 
in fact, resumed its ordinary demeanour before its rider 
had ceased to look grim and red with the surging of a 
tidal wave of nnuttered oaths. Manners had changed 
somewhat in this Park since the days when the general 
had first ridden here with leather straps holding his trou- 
sers firmly down upon his boots. If any unlicked cub — 
“ unlicked cub ” was the phrase that was smothered in his 
moustache — had dared to bawl out to a lady in her carriage 
from the top of his coach in the midst of a congested Park, 
that lady’s male friends would have taken good care, by 
Gad, sir, that— that — well, that the bawler did not remain 
an unlicked cub for many more hours. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse only smiled, saying, 

“ What on earth does that silly boy mean ? ” 

General Heathfield began to wish that he had not 
granted his daughter permission to accompany Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse home to lunch. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


241 

In a short time the victoria drove on, and the general 
sat on his horse with his hat raised as it passed him. So 
the illustrious Iron Duke (in steel engravings) saluted 
Marshal Blucher after Waterloo. 

“ I had almost forgotten the cricket match at Lord’s 
to-day,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse to Philippa. “Tommy 
did well to remind us. And now, my dear,” — turning to 
Alice, — “tell me all about yourself. Where is that wicked 
man who is doing his best to entrap you into marrying 
him ? ” 

Alice laughed, after the first flush of colour had passed. 
She made no answer, unless that flush and laugh were 
regarded by Mrs. Bennett Wyse as an answer to her in- 
quiry. 

“We are all very fond of Mr. Wentworth ; are we not, 
Phil ? ” continued the Queen Poppy. 

“ Oh, yes, indeed ; w^e are all very fond of him,” replied 
Phil, without a moment’s hesitation. 

“ What a pity it was that that tiresome headache of his 
forced him to run away from us at Danesfort ! He would 
so much have enjoyed Babby Baiser’s fun,” resumed Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse. “We are all so fond of Babby ; are we 
not, Phil ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed— so fond of her ! ” replied Phil. 

“Isn’t she delightfully funny?” said Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse to Alice. 

“ I don’t think she is,” said the girl, with as small an 
amount of hesitation as Phil had shown in her answer. 

“ Good gracious ! How decided you are ! ” laughed 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ I think it is something to be decided about,” said the 
girl. As Philippa looked at her she fancied that she could 
see the general acting as president of a court martial and 
yet finding that one of the ordinary members — a sapper, 
most likely — failed to agree with him on some point. “ I 
think that in the case of that poor girl -with the painted 
face who sang and winked and did other horrid things 
while we were at supper, one cannot be too decided, Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse.” 


242 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“She certainly is horrid — but so diverting ! ” said Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse. 

“I cannot say that I was diverted — only astonished,” 
said Alice. “ Just think of what her songs were about.” 

“ Oh, if one began to ask what songs were about where 
would we be in a minute ? ” 

“ One of her songs actually made a mock of chastity in 
men,” continued the young lady, quite coolly. 

“ Oh, heavens ! you do not say so ! ” cried Mrs. Bennett 
V/yse, with wide eyes and not a trace of merriment shown 
in the quivering of a single lash. “ Is it possible that Bab- 
by went so far as that ? I can scarcely believe it.” 

“ Did you not hear her song — it alluded to a man as a 
Clasper and a wmman as a Claspee ? ” asked the girl. 

“Oh, yes, I heard that one,” replied Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse. 

“ Then you must have heard the detestable way it re- 
ferred to the most sacred matters.” 

“You see, my dear, the fact is that I’m so stupid I 
wouldn’t be able to see what her meaning was when she 
referred to — to — what did you call it ? ” 

“ Chastity of men,” said the girl boldly. 

“ Ah, yes, to be sure. You see the way I can enjoy a 
song like that of poor Babby Baiser’s is by not listening to 
the nasty bits of it. When she comes to something that 
is unlit for the ears of a modest woman, I don’t listen to it. 
You must read a great deal. Miss Heathfield.” 

“ I try to read something every day — something dealing 
boldly with life and its problems— there are so many social 
problems nowadays. ” 

“ Oh, so many — so many ! ” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 
“ You must become an Introspector.” 

“ I should so much like, if you could spare time to tell 
me about their views,” said the girl, with something akin 
to enthusiasm in her voice and eyes. “ I know that our 
views agree on that particular question of a man and 
w’oman being on the same level. But the other views of 
the Introspectors ” 

“ Views— views ! ” cried Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “ Oh, 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


243 


yes ; our views — you will not find them to have a cramp- 
ing effect upon you, my dear.” 

“ And yet — well, don’t you think that a — not exactly a 
cramping influence, of course, but a restrictive influence — 
yes, don’t you think that society should have more restric- 
tions on it than it seems to have at present ? ” 

“ I do indeed — oh, yes ; that is precisely my idea,” said 
the Queen Poppy. “ Yes ; I have two or three reforms 
which I mean to devote an entire winter to bring about. 
One is, as you say, the introduction of several restrictions 
into modern society ; another, the exclusion of labour 
members from the House of Commons ; a third, the aboli- 
tion of Mohammedanism ; a fourth, the settlement of the 
Irish question ; a fifth, the conversion of the Jews — all are 
equally possible, and will be accomplished about the same 
time. Here we are at Battenberg Gardens.” 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse took occasion to remark to Philippa 
as they met on the stairs coming from their dressing- 
rooms, that Alice Heathfleld was an impossible young 
woman. 

“ The idea of her talking in that strain about men and 
all that kind of thing, and she just back from India ! ” 

But Philippa would not hear a word said against her. 

“ She fancies that the Introspectors are in earnest, poor 
girl ! ” said Philippa. “ God knows that what she said is 
true. Society needs some restrictions ; and I’m sure that 
men’s lives need more restrictions to be put upon them as 
well. Because we sneer and laugh cynically at the idea 
of improving the world, that is no reason why we should 
not respect those who hope to do something for their 
fellow-creatures. I wish that I had half Alice Heathfield’s 
courage.” 

“ What I want to know is, how are we to take her with 
us on Tommy’s coach to Lord’s this afternoon. Give your 
attention to that soul-problem first, and then we’ll talk 
about the rehabilitating mankind,” cried the Queen Poppy. 
“ Do you fancy that I’m going to run the chance of hear- 
ing her lecture the coach on the iniquities of modern so- 
ciety and on the Crusade as a profession ? Does the little 


m 


ONE Pair daughter. 


goose fancy that we are still in the Outcast London Year, 
when people talked of these things ? Why, we might as 
well begin to talk about the Slums or the Cowboys just 
now as upon that stuff. Now, what are we to do with 
her ? ” 

.“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Phil, “unless you 
would think of puttiug an opiate into her lemonade — she 
drinks lemonade — I saw her do it at Danesfort.” 

“We must leave her behind us for some reason,” said 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“We must,” cried Philippa suddenly. “We must and 
we shall. I thought when I heard you ask her that you 
knew that Maurice Wentworth intended calling this after- 
noon.” 

“ Is he to call ? ” 

“ When we were driving home I recollected that he 
had said he would call this afternoon,” said Philippa. 

“ It is the Hand of Providence,” said Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse. There was a pause before she repeated the phase 
slowly and solemnly. “ It is the Hand of Providence. 
What on earth would we have done with her ? What 
are girls coming to ? You heard how glibly she spoke of 
matters that you and I dare not so much as think upon. 
Oh, it is the Finger of Providence — one may go the length 
of a Finger without irreverence. I hand her over with 
the greatest satisfaction : Providence will have a pretty 
handful of her.” 

“ I believe with all my soul that it is the Hand of Provi- 
dence,” said Philippa. 

And that was how it came about that Maurice Went- 
worth, knocking at the door of Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s 
house in Battenberg Gardens’^ at four o’clock, and inquir- 
ing for Miss Liscomb, was shown into the Louis Seize 
drawing-room, and found himself facing the sweet flushed 
face of Alice Heathfleld. 

She looked at him smiling, and when the door was 
closed she said, 

“Miss Liscomb told me to say that you would find 
your answer in this room.” 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


245 


“ My answer — my answer? ” he said. 

“ I was puzzled,” said the girl ; “ and I see you are so 
too.” 

He did look X3uzzled for a few moments. Then he gave 
a laugh, saying, 

“ I understand now — yes, well, well, the answer ? ” 

“ But what is the question ? ” she cried. 

“ The question which I am here to ask, and which you 
are here to answer is, what day I am to call you my wife,” 
said he. “ Let it be to-morrow, Alice.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

BRINGS A MAN OF THE WORLD INTO THE STUDIO OF A 
PAINTER AND SENDS HIM AWAY FROM IT MERRY. 

It was late that same night when Maurice Wentworth 
sought out his friend Alfred Bentham, and found him 
smoking in his studio, and surveying, by the light that 
came from an old silver Florentine hanging lamp, a large 
blank canvas on a stretcher. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” asked the paint- 
er. “To what am I indebted for the honour of this 
visit ? Heavens ! You don’t come to tell me that you 
have ’’ 

Alfred had risen and shaken hands with his friend 
while he was speaking. He did not let go his hand. 

“ But that’s just what I have done,” cried Maurice. 

Then it was that Alfred released his hand. 

“ You have broken off ” 

“ Broken off ? broken what off ? I’ve broken nothing 
off. I'll break something off presently if you don’t ex- 
X)lain yourself satisfactorily.’’ 

“ Then everything is the same as before ? ” 

“ Nothing is the same as before, my lad. There’s to be 
a new housemaid and a new cook to meet the require- 
ments of the situation : for Alice Heathfield has promised 


246 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


to marry me on this day three weeks. That’s the joyful 
news.” 

‘‘ News ! My dear boy, this is news ! Why, I thought 
— that is, I had an idea — oh, never mind.” 

Maurice became grave at once. 

“Alfred,” said he, “once before you made some sug- 
gestion — I did not think much about it at the moment ; 
hut afterwards I thought about it — a suggestion that— that 
— well that — I meant to be a trifler — a heartless ” ^ 

“ Not that — not that, Maurice,” interposed Alfred. “ I 
never thought of your being heartless — ^just the opposite.” 

“ Well, say no more about it,” said Maurice, with a wave 
of the hand. “ I trust that I have always recognised what 
honour and gratitude demanded of me. I made a mistake 
once— you know.” 

“ I know. But say no more about that.” 

“ I say nothing about it except to you ; because you are 
the only one who could understand. I have made all the 
reparation in my power to her. You are right ; it is best 
not to begin to talk about three years ago. It is about the 
future, and not the past that I am anxious to talk. I think 
that my happiness is assured. Alice Heathtield is the best 
girl in all the world.” 

He spoke with an enthusiasm that was pervaded with a 
mournful note. Alfred Bentbam had a good ear. 

“ I hope you will be happy,’^ he said, taking the note 
from Maurice, and prolonging it in the minor key. “That 
is — oh, bang it all, man, these commonplace congratula- 
tions are too ridiculous for such friends as we are. Thej" 
sound like an exchange of condolences. Your happiness 
is assured, my dear Maurice. She is a charming girl, and 
you— well, a year has passed, and you are still true to 
her.” 

“ Yes, I am true to her. Thank God for that — thank 
God for that, Alf ! ” 

“ You will have reason to thank God in days to come, 
I am sure. After all, Maurice, whatever cynical people 
may say — and they seem to be getting more numerous 
every year in this town— there’s something in the con- 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 247 

sciousiiess that one has been true — true to oneself — true to 
one's love — true to truth.” 

‘‘ That’s it— that’s it, Alf. That’s what happiness means 
for such as you and I. Duty, Alfred — to do one's duty 
truly and unswervingly — that leaves a wholesome taste on 
a man’s mouth. The tangles of Nesera’s hair are not the 
ambrosice comce'oi the dea vera, — my true goddess is Fi- 
delity to true love. Three weeks, Maurice, will not take 
long to pass ; and then — ah, the feeling of security that 
there is in marriage ! Why did not she marry me a year 
ago when we were together in India ? If she had done so 
—and I implored of her, Alf — I implored of her — how hap- 
py we would have been! how happy we would be now !” 

He was walking up and down the studio, and his final 
words sounded like a plaint for pity. 

It was not uttered in vain: his friend pitied him with 
all his heart. 

“You would be happy now, no doubt,’' said Alfre’d. 
“ But my notion is that it’s better to have all one’s happi- 
ness before one. Do you remember what the philosopher 
said about Truth ? ” 

“ Oh, philosophy ! ” 

“ Yes; xdiilosophy, my good man. Now and again one 
does stumble across something that appeals to one’s sense 
even in a system of philosophy. The philoso^Dher said at 
the close of a long and laborious life, that if he were of- 
fered the choice between Truth and the Pursuit of Truth, 
he would prefer the latter. It’s the same in the matter of 
^ love. True happiness is not in the attainment.” 

“ More cynicism 1 Alfred, for heaven’s sake don’t allow 
yourself to fall into the prevailiug habit of this town. 
Your modern cynic is a man who wilfully looks at happi- 
ness through the wrong end of a telescope. He is the man 
who fancies he knows the world because he has seen the 
reflection of a landscape on the back of a silver sj^oon.” 

Now, considering that only a few minutes j^reviously 
Alfred had himself been lamenting the spread of cynicism, 
and had been giving expression to sentiments of that 
healthy commonplace type which commends itself so high- 


248 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


ly to payers of pew rents and framers of lithographs, it was 
a trifle hard on him to he accused by his friend of a desire 
to disseminate the views of such men as gain their knowl- 
edge of the world through an especially distorting medium. 
He felt this deeply; hut he felt much more deeply for his 
friend, whose state of mind was so clearly indicated by his 
adoption of the attitude of accuser. He felt for him so 
deeply that he referred once more to his prospective hap- 
piness, and then suggested the appropriateness of a bottle 
of a sparkling wine out of a case that he had just received 
from a firm of Greek shipj^ers, whose trade had, they de- 
clared, received a wonderful impetus owing to the Greek 
sympathies induced by Mr. Bentham’s pictures. 

‘‘ Nothing better ! ” cried Maurice. “ Only — it’s not 
Greek wine.” 

“ Do you fancy that the shippers, who presumedly know 
all about it, would present Greek wine to those whom they 
delight to honour ? ” said Alfred. ‘‘ No, this comes from 
the cellars of the Widow, and it was bottled in a vintage 
year.” 

“ Ring for it in the name of the goddess who rose, out 
of the foam not of the sea, but of a Greek wine, in the 
days when they made better wine in Greece than they do 
now,” said Maurice. ‘‘ Aphrodite, goddess of goddesses — 
goddess of lovers, who, worshipping thee, are raised by 
thee to the level of gods ; hail — all hail ! We have had 
some good times together, Alf, my lad ! Paris ! — well 
Paris was good enough for a month or two ; hut Vienna ! 
and Naples ! — O dolce Napoli ! O siiol beato I Do you re- 
member those nights at Sorrento ? — and Venice ? But you 
had always a degree of austerity about you, Alf. You re- 
strained yourself. Your heart, my friend, was always con- 
trolled by your head. But I — well ! I lost my head first and 
then my heart. Oh, you anchorite ! You remember the 
temptation of St. Anthony at — was it Sienna ? Yes, by 
heaven, it was at Sienna. But you resisted it ; and then 
in the morning you wanted to treat the episode artistically. 
You wanted to cover up your disappointment with a pot 
of paint. And this is the Widow’s vintage ! Bene! we’ll 


THE WOMAN .ACTS. 


2T9 


drown our sorrows — what the devil am I saying ? — our 
joy, Alf, — weTl drown our joy — no, hang it all, that’s 
not it. We’ll ” 

“We’ll drink to the future,” said Alfred, feeling a 
greater pity than ever for the man who was talking like 
one drunk with new wine, and, through endeavouring to 
hide what was in his heart, exposing its secrets in all their 
ghastliness. “ We’ll drink to the future, Maurice. Hap- 
piness in the future — her happiness, which means yours.” 

“Yes — yes— that’s it,” said Maurice. “ i?er happiness. 
And if you go in and win her, Alf, my old friend, no one 
will wish you greater happiness than myself. She is a 
woman with a heart, Alfred. You have been beside her 
as often as I have — you saw her on the night of the supper 

when you came behind her ” 

“ This is your glass,” said Alfred. “ We are drinking to 
the sweet girl whose happiness has been entrusted to your 
keeping. May you be happy ! ” 

He raised his glass, and watched Maurice start strangely 
as he caught up his glass with a nervous hand. 

“ What nonsense have I been talking ? ” he cried. “ Ah 
those old memories were too much for me. Yes, we drink 
to her — Alice — the sweetest girl in England — in aU the 
world, Alf — in all the world ! ” 

He drained his glass with a spasmodic tilt, and then 
laid it down on the tray. 

“ Great heavens ! what wine ! ” he cried. “ Your Sa- 
mian friends know what wine is, though they are Greek 
shippers. Thank you; but you must fill up your own 
glass. You are quite right. She is the best girl in the 
world, and I am the luckiest man in the world. I told 
you long ago of that voyage to India. You were starving 
yourself at home to save money enough to give you a clear 
year at your Odysseus. Well, the success was worth the 
starvation. If you had come with me you might have 
fallen in love with her too, and then— ah, no; we would 
not have quari^elled, you and I. She may have her theories, 
Alfred ; but, in spite of thinking for herself, she’s a sweet 
girl. God forgive me! I don’t deserve her. Depend 


250 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


upon it, my friend, this is the sort of girl who is needed in 
society just now — one who sees that life is real — life is 
earnest. Contrast her with that dreadful Carrie Crofts, 
and you’ll very soon see who is in the right. It seems 
hopeless to try and stir that frivolous thing which we call 
society — to stir it up, to see how false, how shallow, how 
paltry, are all its interests — she says so — Alice — those are 
her very words — but every one can do something to make 
the world better worth living in. You remember the 
story of the child who launched the ship, though it could 
only push a single pound ? ” 

So he went on for an hour — talking in that pitiful 
style, and drank glass after glass of that wine which, hap- 
pily, was generous. Alfred listened to him, assenting now 
and again to the excellent principles which he was assured 
constituted Alice Heathfield’s rule of life, and which she 
hoped to impress upon that society of which Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse was one of the leaders. 

It was long past midnight when he rose, somewhat un- 
steadily, and said a protracted farewell to Alfred, holding 
his hand and assuring him that duty and happiness meant 
something, and that the regeneration of London society, 
though admittedly a large undertaking, was by no means 
a task to view in any spirit of despair. At any rate, he 
meant to do his duty— no one would be able to accuse him 
of behaving dishonourably. Alfred put him into a han- 
som, and returned to his studio with a heart full of pity 
for his friend. 

He had known of the inconstancy of Maurice Went- 
worth in past years in matters of love. Maurice v/as one 
of those men who are unfortunate enough to be constituted 
for conquests over women ; and he fell in love with every 
woman who fell in love with him. He was good-looking 
enough, as men go, and he had a pleasant manner. He 
knew enough about art not to make art a frequent topic of 
conversation ; and, having travelled in every direction, he 
knew better than to hold any theories of life or living. 
Being a good sportsman, he had no sporting anecdotes to 
make men confound him for a liar ; and he believed that. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


251 


while no two runs to hounds are so exactly alike that one 
description would do for both, yet no two runs are so 
widely different as to make either worth describing. He 
was a good average Englishman, and thus would have 
lounged through the world very easily, had he not been 
cursed with that nameless power of attracting women — 
some people call it personal magnetism, others call it by 
some other name ; hut all agree that it is as mysterious as 
magnetism, without having the magnet’s quality of con- 
stancy. 

And this was the man who had returned from India 
the previous year to tell those of his friends whom his 
successes with womankind had not yet estranged from 
him, that he was engaged to marry a very charming girl. 
Alfred remembered how he had shaken his head when he 
was informed that Miss Heathtield had thought it better 
that they should not be married for another year. He 
knew that she w^as wrong. 

But w'hat w^as the good of recalling his head-shakings 
and his doubts ? Maurice would he married to her in 
another three weeks : and the marriage would be, like all 
other marriages, for better or worse. In addition to the 
enthusiastic way in which Maurice had spoken of Alice, 
Alfred had many proofs that he no longer loved her as he 
had loved her between, say, Suez and Bombay. But that 
was no reason why his marriage with her should not be 
happy enough. Passion is not necessary, he knew, to 
make a marriage happy. Few people are susceptible of a 
great passion — either of love or hate : they would not 
know what you meant if you began to talk to them about 
passion ; and yet they make excellent husbands and 
fathers. So it was quite likely that Maurice Wentworth 
and Alice his wife would find themselves in perfect accord 
in all household questions — household religion, household 
art ; and that, in consequence, their union would be quite 
as happy as thousands of those unions which, though 
made in heaven, are utilised in England without any ap- 
parent liability being incurred under a code that recog- 
nises a principle of merchandise marks. 

17 


252 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Then Alfred recalled what his own feelings had been 
when Maurice had entered the studio. His first thought 
was that Maurice had come to tell him that he had agreed 
with Alice that their engagement should be broken off ; 
and when Maurice had apparently assented to his sugges- 
tion that this was the case, what had his own feeling 
been ? 

He recalled it now as he sat alone. He recalled the 
moment of darkness — the moment of the bitterness of 
hopelessness that preceded his friend’s reply ; and then 
the reaction — the moment of brightness — the moment of 
the return of hope to him. 

A revelation had been made to him in the course of 
that minute. Something whose existence he only sus- 
pected had been made plain to him ; and that was why he 
remained for another hour in his studio staring at that 
wide expanse of blank canvas that faced him on an easel. 

To him the canvas was not blank. 

He had imagination, and imagination means hope. 

That is why hope is so frequently delusive. 


CHAPTER V. 

RECORDS SOME TRITE CONVERSATIONS, AND AN ARTIST’S 
ACCOUNT OF A MONUMENT. 

Sir George Breadmore tried to say something that 
had not already been said some scores — perhaps hundreds — 
of times on the subject of marrying and giving in marriage. 
Some people— mostly women — gave him the assurance that 
what he said was altogether original ; but other people — 
mostly men — said that his memory was, as might be ex- 
pected, becoming a trifie threadbare— not in that department 
to whose custody he had entrusted the mots regarding mat- 
rimony which had come from the wits, but in that sub-de- 
partment which he trusted to keep him square respecting 
the persons to whom he had previously repeated his mots. 



To him the canvas was not blank. P. 252 


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THE WOMAN ACTS. 


253 


The raconteur to be a working system requires to have 
two sets of pigeon-holes in his memory ; the one set for 
the good things, the other for the people to whom he has 
repeated them. 

When Sir George had made himself agreeable, in spite 
of his stories, some people — mostly women — wondered 
among themselves how it had chanced that he himself 
had not long ago got married. Surely if he found the 
women who go out to India impossible, he had been at 
home frequently enough to have met with a woman who 
could make him happy — that was how they put it. 

Some knowing ones suggested that Sir George had not 
merely many stories, but A Story. What this story was, 
however, no one seemed quite to know ; but every one ap- 
peared quite willing to forego the enjoyment of hearing 
his stories if only they could hear his story. It was left 
for Carrie Crofts, whose impudence was equal to any 
emergency, to ask him one day, when there was a good 
deal of irresponsible chatter going on at Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse’s on the subject of the decay of matrimony, why it 
was that he had not asked some nice woman to share his 
pension and his star. 

“ You’re not to say old, Georgium Sidus,” said this 
pleasant girl ; “ and surely your pension doesn’t cease, as 
some Indian pensions do, when you marry. Then there’s 
your star, don’t you see ? There’s many a claspee would 
jump at the star.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Sir George. “ The desire of the moth for 
the star. My dear Carrie, my star is a modest one ; it does 
not aim at becoming the centre of a system.” 

“ That’s all very well,” said she. “ But it’s no answer 
to my question : why don’t you get married ? ” 

“ The fact is,” said Sir George, “ since you do me the 
honour of interesting yourself in my future, that I would 
never marry any woman who did not love me, and whom 
I did not respect ; but I know my own defects so thor- 
oughly that I never could respect a woman who was un- 
wise enough to love me. Are you answered ? ” 

“ That’s too copy-book-like for us who have left school,” 


254 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


said Carrie. “ I expect you’ll be made a fool of some of 
these days by an artful young claspee — that happens to all 
clever old claspers like you, and Uncle Dickybird. Oh, 
yes, although Aunt Clarissa isn’t dead yet. Dickybird is 
keeping his eye open for some one young enough to make 
a fool of him. It’s the girl’s turn in this game now.’’ 

When Carrie went away, the consensus of opinion in 
the drawing-room was that she was a horrid girl, and that 
it is the frequency with which such girls are met nowadays 
that causes men like Sir George — in fact, thousands of 
men with stars and without such ornamcnts--to remain 
single. It was agreed that the very infelicitous language 
employed by Carrie upon this occasion might have put 
back, so to speak. Sir George Breadmore for another five 
years. 

The exchange of views on the subject of matrimony 
among Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s circle— the repetition by Sir 
George of the good things which had been said within the 
memory of persons still alive, on the subject of the mar- 
ried state, and which he had carefully edited— the good 
things which he himself had conceived in the most mod- 
ern spirit and delivered palpitating in the midst of some 
semi obscuring phrases that but added to their piquancy, 
as the filmy gauze over the glowing limbs of the Nautch 
girl increases the effect of the jugglery of her dance — all 
these were inspired by the news that Maurice Wentworth 
and Alice Heathfield were to be married within a fort- 
night. 

It seemed a very insignificant incident to be the origin 
of so much brilliancy ; but, then, a dynamite cartridge is, 
in point of bulk, not worth speaking of, but under certain 
conditions it is capable of increasing the nervousness of 
emperors. The ceremony was not to be the quiet one that 
Maurice pleaded for. General Heathfield looked unusu- 
ally stern when suggestions as to the appropriateness of 
quietness in a wedding were made to him by the man who 
was about to become his son-in-law. With some vehe- 
mence the old cavalry officer declared that he would be a 
party to no hole-and-corner business in connection with 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


255 


his daugiiter. He supposed that the next plea would be 
for the registrar only. No ; a ceremony of the heavy- 
marching-order type — a matrimonial full-dress parade, 
with the trooping of the colours and the massed hands 
playing, so to speak, he considered obligatory ; and the 
son-in-law (in prospect) was silenced — at least, so long as 
he remained in the same house as his prospective father- 
in-law ; though in the studio of his friend Alfred Ben- 
tham, to which he frequently repaired, his sentiments on 
this particular question were never veiled in discreet lan- 
guage. 

He never went again to the house of Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse ; and, in consequence, that lady withheld the wed- 
ding present which she had purchased for his house so 
soon as it was understood that the marriage was to take 
place at once. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse never hesitated to express the opin- 
ion that Alice Heathfield was not the girl who was calcu- 
lated to make Maurice Wentworth happy. 

She said some very hitter things about the Eed Sea. 

Her friend Felise de Ligueres shrugged her shapely 
shoulders, and said that if she did not make Maurice 
happy, that was no reason why he should not make her 
happy ; and the happiness of one side in ''a contract so 
precarious as that of matrimony was enough to hope for. 
She could not believe that the culpability of the Red Sea 
was so great as to cause it to be made an example of. She 
even went so far as to say that young men and young 
women had fallen in love — or had fancied that they had 
fallen in lov^e— which, so far as final results were con- 
cerned, was precisely the same thing — on land as well as 
at sea (as a matter of fact, rather more frequently), and in 
the frigid as well as the torrid zone. 

The Queen Poppy had thereupon raised her chin to the 
extent of the eighth part of an inch, and said that she 
wished for Maurice’s sake that Providence might see fit to 
interfere even yet in regard to the marriage. 

My dear Poppy,” said Felise, “ her trousseau has al- 
ready been purchased.” 


250 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“That is nothiDg,” said Poppy. “I have known of 
marriages being broken otf even with the trousseau al- 
ready in the house of the bride.'’ 

“ But a fifty-pound wedding cake has just been built at 
Ostrich’s at the general’s order,” said one of the circle, 
authoritatively. 

“ You are sure ? ” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“Perfectly sure,” replied the other. “One of my sis- 
ters saw three of the tiers.” 

“ Oh, in that case it is too late to look for the interposi- 
tion of Providence,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse solemnly. 
“ The cake is the wedding in the sight of heaven.” 

Carrie Crofts, who also chanced to be present on this 
occasion, said that she had once seen in a wedding-cake 
foundry a forty-two pounder that had been thrown on 
their hands ; so that the dictum of the Queen Poppy was 
not of universal application. Carrie rather thought that 
the arrival of the Indian shawl should be accepted by Provi- 
dence as the period beyond which interposition would not 
be tolerated. 

The announcement of the arrival of the Indian shawl 
came in the course of a day or two ; and after that, the 
ceremony was regarded as inevitable, even by those who 
had not received invitations to the dejeuner — for there was 
to be a deJelXner— and who consequently were not disposed 
to think disaster at the eleventh hour impossible. 

The wedding took place at the church whose walls may 
be considered saturated with matrimony, and in every 
cranny of which there lurks a little satirical demon who 
has got the service so thoroughly off by heart that he 
sometimes seems to shriek it out a word or two ahead of 
the parties to the contract. Sir George Breadmore stood 
by the bridegroom in the church, and got rid of several 
good things in the course of his speech at the dejeuner. 
Alfred Bentham occupied a comparatively humble posi- 
tion ; and neither Mrs. Bennett Wyse nor Philippa Lis- 
comb had received an invitation. The general had begun 
to iiave a distaste for the most recent development of what 
he called the Modern W Oman ; and he had not forgotten 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


257 


Mrs. Bennett Wyse’s easy toleration of the insolence — lie 
called it insolence — of that unlicked cub who had yelled 
down to her in the Park from the box seat of his coach. 

It was on the evening of the wedding-day that Alfred 
Bentham was sitting in his studio — that big blank canvas 
was still on the easel, and it had not yet received a touch 
of colour — when his friend Madame de Lig acres entered. 
Her husband had dropped her at the door, she explained, 
as he was going on a diplomatic mission further west. 

“ And you have no part or lot in diplomatic missions, 
my Felise ? ” said Alfred, speaking in French, as he had 
always done with Madame de Ligueres since he had known 
her in Paris. 

“ No,” said she ; “ I am no diplomatist : I have still a 
friend or two left.” 

“ I can answer for one,” said Alfred. “ Pray don’t up- 
braid me more than you can help by staring at that blank 
canvas.” 

She was standing, in the inflexible attitude that criti- 
cism assumes, in front of the stretcher. 

“ I am here not to upbraid, but to encourage,” she 
said. “Do you feel that you need to be upbraided, my 
friend ? ” 

“ I have been idle — infernally idle ! ” said he. “ I feel 
that, if I feel nothing else.” 

“ It rejoices me to know that you are susceptible of 
some sort of emotion,” said she. “I was beginning to 
fear that you were insensible to all. How long is it since 
you were at the house of Mrs. Bennett Wyse ? ” 

“Heavens above!” cried Alfred. “What inconse- 
quent phrases be these ? Is the house of Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse the house of all the emotions ? My Felise, I have 
never sought to pose as an Introspector. ” 

“ No,” said she. “ But because you decline to look 
within yourself, is that any reason wdiy you should not 
look around you ? ” 

“ The man who looks around him is called by the Lat- 
ins circumspect,” said he. “ Have I failed in circumspec- 
tion ? ” 


258 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ I am thinking what scene should appear upon that 
canvas,” said she, ignoring his question. 

“ I have been doing so for the past month,” said he : 
“that is why I reproach myself for my idleness.” 

“You call yourself an artist, and yet say that, after a 
month’s thought, you have been idle ? ” 

“ I look at my palettes, my brushes, my colour tubes, 
and I know that I have been idle. I wish to heaven that 
you would take a seat and leave off staring at that blank 
canvas.” * 

“ I am beginning to see its white surface alive with 
figures of flesh and blood : I am beginning to see the 
picture.” 

“ You are a good deal luckier than I am, and I know 
that canvas a good deal better than you do, Felise. Tell 
me what you see upon it.” 

“ I see— ah — well, I may tell you before I leave the 
studio. How did the wedding pass off ? ” 

“ It was a SHOCKS fou I If it had a fault at all it was in 
direction of supreme perfection. It was, in fact, too like 
one’s notion of a wedding — or an inspection of troops— I 
fancied I saw the general examining, with the earnestness 
of the conscientious sergeant-major, the accoutrements of 
the rank and file in front of the altar, after he had given 
the order - eyes front ’ on the entrance of the three clergy- 
men. And those three clergymen ! They treated us with 
an indifference that was absolutely chilling — never so 
much as glancing at us ; and yet we w^ere their clientele — 
we might have gone to any other establishment of the 
same kind and have been equally well suited in our 
business ; but they did not seem to feel grateful. They 
talk about competition in these days, Felise ; by heavens ! 
you would have fancied from the demeanour of those par- 
sons that they had a monopoly of marriage in this town, 
and that their position at the head of the profession was 
impregnable.” 

“ And the dejeijiner ? ” said Felise. 

“ Irreproachable,” said Alfred ; “ if it had not been for 
the comestibles and the speeches. But the wedding-cake 


TUB WOMAN ACTS. 


259 


Felise— it was a marvel! It was monumental — almost 
funereal in its stateliness. Every tier was surrounded by 
representations in pdte-sur-pdte, done in white sugar, of 
scenes in the life of the bride’s father. The base was 
given over to the storming of Arradambad — any amount 
of iniquitous elephants and preposterous palms. The sec- 
ond range illustrated the celebrated charge of Golconda, 
and the capture of the Ormuz Palace. The third showed 
a skirmish with Fuzzy- Wuzzy — the Pyramids in the 
background ; and a fourth — well, I forget what was the 
scene around the fourth. Never mind ; the whole was 
most effective, and the design was the highest form of 
confectioner’s gothic.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said Felise. 

“ Who is the poor fellow — the general, Maurice, or my- 
self ? ” asked Alfred. 

‘‘ You know : he was your friend,” said Felise. 

“1 know nothing.’’ 

“He has not been to Queen Poppy’s for a fort- 
night.” 

“ Neither have I, if it comes to that.” 

“ Are you going there shortly ? In another week the 
town will be empty.” 

There was a considerable pause before Alfred rose from 
his chair, and standing opposite the blank canvas, said, 

“ God knows I ” 

Felise stood beside him. 

“You are not a fool,” she said. “We have always 
been the best friends in the world. You have often con- 
fided in me.” 

“ I could have no more sympathetic confidante,” said 
he, taking her hand. 

There was a still longer silence than the last. It was 
all very well to take her hand and to allude to her sympa- 
thetic nature :• he showed no disposition to confide in her 
just then. 

“ Alfred,” said she, “ you have not only confided in me 
in the past : you have also asked my advice on some mat- 
ters, and now and again have not failed to take it.” 


200 


ONK FAIR T)4UGIITFR. 


“ I have never regretted it either in regard to a point 
of art or — well, something else.” 

“ There is Francois at the door,” said she quickly. “ I 
am going to give you some advice now, Alfred.” 

“ On a matter of art ? ” 

“On— yes, a matter of art. I have been looking at 
that blank canvas; and, as I told you, a number of scenes 
of the sort that you like to deal with suggested themselves 
to me for your new work. Let your new work be ‘ The 
Quest of the Golden Fleece.’ Think over that— it is my 
advice to you. Now, au revoir.'^'’ 


CHAPTER VI. 

EXHIBITS THE MAN OF ART IN FRONT OF A BLANK CANVAS. 

“ The Quest of the Golden Fleece ” — that was what she 
said, before she hurried away, leaving him standing on 
the spot where he had so often stood, in front of the blank 
canvas. 

The Golden Fleece. . . . The Quest . . . yes, the sub- 
ject was one that was in complete sympathy with the 
Greek vein which he hoped to work profitably. He be- 
lieved that he could see his way to introduce another 
island and new maidens with the same large wondering 
grey eyes that the lovely stately ones in his last pictures 
possessed ; and then . . . then he began to think of the 
last time that he had looked into the eyes of the maidens. 
The golden-haired maiden had been by his side. 

He had only seen her face to face once since that day ; 
but had any hour passed without his thinking about her ? 

And yet he could not tell whether he loved her or not. 

He sometimes thought that he did : and sometimes he 
wondered if he had not loved her years ago — if he had not 
loved her from the first moment that he had looked at Na- 
ture in the face, and had asked himself if the deep yearning 
that he felt to see before him a face whose beauty should 


TTTE WOMAN ACTS. 


be the perfection of all things of beauty in Nature, was 
love. He wondered if all his life, with its gropings after 
certain living and vivifying, but, alas ! elusive principles, 
which he wished to put into the language of colour, had 
not been a quest of that golden maiden of whom he was 
thinking. 

And yet he could not tell whether he loved her or not. 

Felise de Ligueres could have told him, had she known 
all that he knew" regarding himself — had she, for instance, 
known what sort of a night he had passed when he had 
returned from spending that lovely Sunday in company 
with Maurice Wentworth, with George Mannington at 
that cottage on the Surrey hill. Yes, had the charming 
Frenchwoman known the exact distance that he had 
walked between midnight and dawn after he had come to 
perceive that Maurice loved that golden creature, she 
would not have hesitated to reply to that inquiry of his as 
to whether or not he was in love with her. 

Had Felise also had the least idea what his feelings 
were during the two minutes that elapsed from the mo- 
ment Philippa went out upon the balcony of the hotel 
overlooking the river until she returned, her hesitation in 
replying to the question which was even now troubling 
him would have been still less. 

But if he was troubled — and it was nearly certain that 
he was — with the question as to whether or not he loved 
Philippa, the equally vital question as to whether or not 
Philippa loved him was quite as great a trouble to him. 
How could it be possible that she loved him, he asked him- 
self ; and he had no answer ready to this pertinent in- 
quiry. She had no reason to love him more than any one 
else. He had 'sat beside her half a dozen times, and she had 
chatted with him just as freely as she had chatted with 
other men — no more so. On what principle, then, should 
he venture to assume that she was in love with him ? 
Such an assumption would be ridiculous in the extreme. 

This was how that eminent worker in art endeavoured 
to apply to the solution of a question of loving and being 
loved, the ordinary rules of evidence by the aid of which 


262 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


a jury of Englishmen determine the guilt or the innocence 
of the prisoner at the bar. 

What motive could the prisoner have for committing 
the crime with which he stands arraigned ? his pleader 
asks the jury; and they lay their heads together over this 
question. 

The man of art considered himself justified in subject- 
ing his question of love to such rules as are supposed by 
lawyers and persons of that stamp to govern the ordi- 
nary actions of men and women. 

If his friend Felise de Ligueres had had a chance of be- 
coming acquainted with the line taken by his thoughts in 
this matter, she wmuld probably have considered herself 
amply justified in reiterating to him her upbraidings of 
years ago in regard to his devotion to art, to the exclusion 
of other matters quite as real, and perhaps very nearly as 
vital to the ultimate happiness of men and women in the 
world. 

While the other workers in art around him in Paris 
made themselves at the same time participators in the 
great emotions that stir jnen and women and provide 
artists and poets with the subjects of pictures and poems, 
he had held himself severely aloof from them all. So 
Feli.se had assured Mrs. Bennett Wyse in company with - 
Philippa Liscomb in the course of a confidential chat 
already recorded; but Felise had not thought it necessary 
to mention at that time the frequency wTtli which she had 
advised him to join in the freaks— the word was her own 
—indulged in by his brother students. She had reminded 
Alfred in his studio that he had occasionally taken the 
advice that she had offered him. So he had ; but he could 
not be persuaded to take part in these revels of love and 
feasting, and the rioting that resulted from a combination 
of the two. He could not see that the men who indulged 
in these personal essays in the art of living became b'ctter 
fitted in consequence to treat pictorially the great dramas 
of life, and love, and death. As a matter of fact, he was 
accustomed to assert, their technique degenerated in con- 
sequence of their attempts to participate in those revels. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


263 


which might be so effectively reproduced on canvas if 
one’s technique remained sound. 

Madame de Ligueres had called him many names of 
deep reproach, such as Joseph, Saint Anthonj^, Sir Per- 
cival, and had assured him that his hour would come. 
He had thereupon laughed, and told her that he would 
wait for it. 

Had his hour come ? 

That was the question which he struggled to answer as 
he sat in his silent studio. 

He wondered if the men who had been his fellow stu- 
dents in Paris and who had been almost every week ready 
to fight to the death to pi*ove that their latest love was the 
grandest of passions, were better qualified than he was to 
answer his questions. 

He doubted it. 

Could the wisest among them tell him, for iu stance, 
what Philippa Liscomb had meant when she had added 
the word to the conventional phrase which he had em- 
ployed in asking her to drink with him to Maurice Went- 
worth and Alice Heath field ? 

“ To the one ivho loves him— best,"’' she had said as she 
looked over the edge of the champagne glass. 

Now who could tell him what she had meant by add- 
ing that word to his ordinary phrase ? 

He had been startled the moment that she had repeated 
his words, adding her own word; hut then she had risen 
from the table affecting to give him the assurance that she 
could only mean to refer to Alice Heathfield. He had 
been satisfied with that assurance for a time ; but now the 
words returned to vex him. What could she have meant? 
what on earth could she have meant ? what in the name 
of heaven could she have meant ? 

It was all very well for Felise de Ligueres to talk about 
his next work being the Quest of the Golden Fleece ; the 
obloquy of failure to achieve that enterprise would not 
fall on her, but on him. 

And was not failure inevitable ? 

He went to his bed ; and this was, perhaps, the wisest 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


2(U 

thing that he could have done. It was two hours past 
midnight. He might as well have gone immediately after 
the departure of Felise de Ligueres for all the satisfaction 
he received from his deliberation upon the matters that 
kept him awake. 

The next day he called upon Mrs. Bennett Wyse, and 
found that she was on the eve of departing for Scotland. 
The season had been unusually prolonged, and she and 
Philippa greatly needed rest — that rest which is to be ob- 
tained in a house within easy reach of a grouse moo7', in 
the centre of which lunch is served daily by attendants 
wdth rigid punctuality. In the second week in September 
they would be back in Battenberg Gardens for a short 
time, to await the return of Mr, Bennett Wyse from South 
Africa, he was informed ; and then they would, of course, 
go on the Continent for a month or two. 

He inquired for Miss Liscomb, and learned from Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse that she was at Sloane Street engaged 
in a rather important interview with Madame Lucy Jones ; 
the fact being that a really picturesque costume for the 
moors had never yet been devised, and Madame Lucy had 
been induced to grapple with the subject that had baffled 
hundreds of professors of the art of appropriate attire. She 
had declared, Mrs. Bennett Wyse said, that if Miss Liscomb 
adopled whatever costume might be devised, its success 
might be counted upon. Mr. Bentham must frequently 
have 'noticed how, when one beautiful woman with the 
height and gait of a Greek goddess — Mr. Bentham knew 
something about Greek goddesses— adopted a style of attire 
that suited her features and her figure, all the squats and 
squaws among mortals got into the same style of garb, 
and fondly believed that they conveyed precisely the same 
effect to onlookers as was achieved by the original wearer 
of the costume. 

Mr. Bentham said that all he had noticed was that many 
women were foolish enough to appear in costumes which 
could by no pqssibility be said to make them seem other- 
wise than ridiculous. This being so, Mrs. Bennett Wyse 
and Miss Liscomb, whose dress was never otherwise than 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


265 


grateful to the eye, both as regards colour and form, were 
the more heartily to be thanked by the onlookers. 

“ Non nobis— non nobis,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 
“ We are in the hands of Madame Lucy. She does every- 
thing for us. Her powerful will controls us, from the 
sole of our shoes to the crowns of our bonnets— that is, in 
the years when the bonnets are worn with crowns. 
Wiiere would we be without Madame Lucy ? But you 
should not lose an opportunity of seeing the heather cos- 
tume she is now perfecting for us.” 

“ It would look terrible in London,” said Alfred. 
“ Such a costume is one that is certain to require a more 
extensive background than London can offer. Rightly to 
appreciate the heather costume one should be in the midst 
of the heather. Madame Lucy is too great an artist not to 
take into account in her composition the sympathy of en- 
vironment. Your Greek costumes, which made my little 
supper a thing to be remembered for ever, w'ould have lost 
much of their effect if they had not been worn in the 
Greek room. But among the Corinthian columns and 
arches they were simply a part of the place — any other 
costume would have been ludicrously bizarre there.” 

“ But you are going to Mr. Wicks’ moor, are you not ? ” 
asked Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

“ I promised him to do so a month ago,” said Alfred. 

“ Then there is no reason w^hy you should not see the 
heather costumes in the midst of the heather,” said she. 
“ We go first to Blaircaddie.” 

“That is only about three days’ journey from Mr. 
Wicks’ mountain,” said Alfred. 

“ And then we go up north to Whustlekist Castle.” 

“ There you get out of touch with humanity altogether,” 
laughed Alfred. “No, my dear Mrs. Bennett Wyse ; I do 
not hope to have a chance of seeing those costumes this 
year.” 

“ At any rate you’ll know where we are to be found, if 
Mr. Wicks is less companionable than he has hitherto 
proved himself,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. 

Did she mean anything by that, he asked himself as he 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


2 ()() 

got into a hansom and drove to his rooms. Did she mean 
that he would be doing wisely to pursue his Quest over 
the Scotch moors ? Was she as well as his friend Felise 
thinking of this Quest ? 

He was full of perplexity. He wondered if all other 
men are subject to the same harrowing doubts and fears 
and inward questionings and perplexities when they set 
out upon the perilous Quest which he, by the way, had not 
yet summoned up sufficient resolution to essay. 


CHAPTER VII. 

TRIES TO SHOW HOW A MAN OF ART CHANGES INTO A MAN 
OF ACTION. 

On one afternoon in the second week in September, 
Alfred Bentham, tanned almost to the hue of the darkest 
feather in the birds that he had been trying, with varying 
degrees of success, to shoot during the previous month, 
found himself walking from his rooms down Piccadilly— 
a desolate thoroughfare— in the direction of Battenberg 
Gardens. 

He reached the well-known house, and, after looking 
with some trepidation at the lower windows, he went 
briskly up the steps, for he perceived that the blinds were 
drawn up. The house was no longer unoccupied — so 
much was certain. Of course Mrs. Bennett Wyse had 
told him that she and Philippa would be back from Scot- 
land and at this house during the second week in Septem- 
ber; but he knew how her plans were now and again 
liable to be frustrated by circumstances that could not be 
counted upon ; and he would not have been surprised had 
he found the blinds drawn. 

He pulled the bell and awaited the result. It did not 
follow immediately; and he was compelled to ring and 
knock a second time— a most unusual necessity at this 
well-ordered house. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


207 


While he stood with his eyes fixed upon the letter-box 
cover, and thinking mournfully of the decay of English 
brass work, a hansom pulled up opposite the house. He 
turned away from the letter-box and watched with some 
interest a young man jump out of the vehicle and toss up 
half-a-crown to the appreciative driver, who assured him 
that he ‘‘ knew a gent when he see ’im which was rare in 
these days.” Alfred, seeing the young man, also knew 
him ; he had not forgotten the x)leasant face of Teddy 
Haven — it was pleasant this day until it found itself oppo- 
site to the face of the man at the head of the steps. Then 
it turned sour and surly. 

“ How do you do ? ” said Alfred. ‘‘ I met you in here, 
you may remember, a few months ago after seeing you at 
Steeplecross.” 

How do ? ” said Teddy. “ I promised to call upon 
Mrs. Bennett V/yse when I got back to London. Have 
you knocked ? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; I have both knocked and rung,” readied Alfred. 
“ I expect the household is scarcely in order yet.” 

“ Oh, she’ll see me, never fear,” said Teddy, giving his 
stick a swing, and assuming a knowing look. “ She’ll see 
me.*’ 

He crossed to the bell, and gave its handle the pull of 
a man who is not inclined to be trifled with. 

“Yes, I fancy Mrs. Bennett Wyse will see you,” re- 
marked Alfred. 

The two men stood waiting in silence at the head of 
the steps. They were listening for the approach of foot- 
steps in the hall. 

They both turned round suddenly and at the same in- 
stant, as a second hansom pulled up at the house, the 
driver being directed by the index-end of a malacca cane, 
projected beyond the edge of the roof. They watched the 
occupant of the vehicle free himself from the apron and 
get out. The operation was a more deliberate one with 
him than it had been with Teddy. 

“Wait,” said the fare to the driver; and the driver 
made a motion with his finger as if he had intended 
18 


2G8 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


touching his hat, hut had changed his mind at the last 
moment. 

It was Lord Sandycliffe who mounted the steps — not 
without drawing an extra breath or two — and stood be- 
tween Alfred and Teddy at the top. He wore a black 
satin scarf fastened with a pin, the head of which was a 
funereal urn on an oval background done in black Wedg- 
wood. 

“ How do, Bentham ? ’’ he inquired. If he felt any sur- 
prise on coming suddenly upon the two men, he contrived 
to conceal it. ‘‘ How do, Bentham ? ” He shook hands 
with Alfred. “ You’re back, I see ; I heard that you had 
good sport at Callerhern. Have you rung ? ” 

“ Yes, I rang,” said Alfred. I don’t know if Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse is receiving yet.” 

“ Oh, she’ll see me,” said Lord Sandycliffe quietly; not 
in the jaunty tone of the younger man at the other side of 
the Ionic stucco porch. The pull that Lord Sandycliffe 
gave to the bell-handle was not aggressive. 

The three men waited in silence. Alfred Bentham was 
at one side, with his eyes fixed on the letter-box cover. 
Teddy Haven leant negligently against the iron rails above 
the basement windows. Lord Sandycliffe examined with 
some attention the gold top of his malacca cane. 

“Mrs. Bennett Wyse cannot have returned yet,” said 
Alfred. “I don’t think ITl wait any longer.” 

“ The blinds are up,” said Lord Sandycliffe. “ It’s those 
dam servants as usual. They’re up to some of their larks. 
All servants are a dam nuisance.” 

“ There’s some one coming to the door at last,” said Al- 
fred. 

Teddy stood up from the railings, and gave his arms a 
jerk that caused an extra half inch of his cuffs to be ex- 
posed. 

The sound of shuffling footsteps at the other side of the 
door was heard ; and then the door was slowly opened, 
and there stood revealed the tall figure of a man, wearing 
an old plush waistcoat with a light tweed suit and dilapi- 
dated slippers. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


269 


He was a footman in slippers — the most incongruous 
object that exists on the face of the earth — more so than a 
bishop in a Turkish bath. 

He started when he found himself face to face with 
Lord Sandycliffe — started, and fastened the lowest button 
of the frayed w^aistcoat. 

(So the inebriate hastily puts a clove into his mouth 
and is ready to face any tribunal.) 

The man who opened the door was a poor object, shuf- 
fling along the hall tiles — his yawn was heard as he grasped 
the handle — and at a first glance his knees seemed weak ; 
but the moment he had fastened the button he was the 
footman once more. 

“Mrs. Bennett Wyse returned ?” said Teddj^ 

“ Mrs. Bennett Wyse ? ” said Lord Sandy cliffe. 

“ Mrs. Bennett Wyse ? ” said Alfred. 

The footman ignored two of the questioners. He knew 
his place. 

“No, mTord. Not at ’ome.” 

“ Not back ? ” said Lord Sandycliffe. 

“ Yes, mTord — back, but not at ’ome,” said the man. 

“ Not seeing any one ? ” said the peer. 

“ No, m’lord. Not at ’ome.” 

“Is Miss Liscomb in the house ?” asked Teddy boldly. 

The footman stared at him. So did the two callers. 

“ If she’s in the house go to her and tell her that I’m 
here— just say Teddy— I mean just say Mr. Haven. You 
understand ? ” said the young man firmly. 

The footman looked at him. His eyes travelled down 
Teddy’s person as far as the topmost button of his coat. 

“ Do you hear ? ” said Teddy. “Are you deaf, my good 
man ? ” 

“ The ladies is not at ’ome, sir,” said the man. 

“ Where are they, as a matter of fact ? ” said Teddy. 

With a little laugh. Lord Sandycliffe commenced 
his descent of the steps — Alfred had preceded him by a 
step. 

“The ladies have took their departure for the High- 
lands this morning, sir,” said the footman. 


270 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


But you said just now that they had returned from 
Scotland,” said Teddy. “ Where are they ? Now mind 
yourself.” 

Lord Sandycliffe went down another step. 

‘‘ They’ve returned from Scotland, but they’ve gone to 
the Highlands,” the man explained. 

“ That’s dam rot,” said Teddy. “ What Highlands ?” 

“The Madeery Highlands, sir.” 

The two men going down the steps paused and glanced 
behind them. 

“ What the devil do you mean ? ” said Teddy in a loud 
voice. “ Do you mean to say that the ladies are gone to 
the Madeira Islands ? ” 

“ Which I’ve just said it, sir.” 

“ What are they gone there for, do you know ? ’’ re- 
sumed Teddy, after a pause. 

Mr. Bennett Wyse have just bought a property in 
one of the Highlands ; he was on his way from Hafricar, 
and three days ago he sent a telegram for the ladies to join 
’im there. They left. ” 

“ My God ! And when will they return ? ” 

“In a month, sir.” 

Teddy stood facing the footman in silence. 

“ Good day to you, Bentham. Can I give you a lift ? ” 
said Lord Sandycliffe to Alfred, with his foot on the iron 
stirrup of the hansom. 

“ No, thanks,” said Alfred. “ I’m going in the other 
direction.” 

(Lord Sandycliffe had not indicated his intended route 
by word or sign.) 

“ Sorry for that. Good day to you. White’s.” 

“ Good day to you,” said Alfred, walking in the oppo- 
site direction to that which a reasonable hansom driver 
would pursue in order to reach White’s. He could see 
Teddy still questioning the footman at the head of the 
steps. 

He walked half way down Piccadilly, and then hailed 
a hansom and named a shipping agency not far from Pall 
Mall. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 271 

“Would I be in time for the Cape steamer from Bel- 
haven ? ” he inquired of a clerk. 

“ The Conswater Castle leaves Belhaven this evening, 
sir,” said the cleik. 

“ And would I be in time for her if I caught the next 
train ? ” 

“ I can't say, sir. I can wire for you and inquire. The 
hour of departure depends on the mails. Most passengers 
take the midday train, to make sure.” 

‘‘ What hour is the next train to Belhaven ? ” 

“ Charing Cross at 5 9, sir. You might catch that with 
a good horse.” 

The office clock pointed to 5 '4. 

He was back in his hansom in a few" seconds. 

“ Drive all you know to Charing Cross station,” he or- 
dered the driver. 

“ District, sir ? ” 

“ No.” 

He arrived at the station a minute and a half before the 
departure of the train for Belhaven. 

He arrived at Belhaven just in time to get a good view 
of the stern of tlie steamship Consicater Castle two miles 
out in the Channel on her passage to Table Bay, calling 
at the island of Madeira. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

DEMONSTRATES HOW COMPLETELY ART MAY BECOME SUB- 
ORDINATE TO ACTION. 

He felt, as he sat down to dinner in the hotel facing 
the dock, better than he had felt for a considerable time. 
He had become a man of action, and that reflection made 
him feel that he w"as a new" man. 

He was not greatly disappointed at being too late to 
get aboard the steamer ; that was only an incident — an 
accident : the fact remained the same that he had become 


272 


ONK PAIR DAUGHTER. 


a man of action ; and lie had an excellent appetite for his 
dinner— the normal appetite of the man of action. 

He had given up all the vain questionings and perplex- 
ities in which he had indulged during the summer. He 
had taken a few of them with him to Scotland, where he 
had been aiming at certain portions of the blue sky which 
his judgment told him a bird would pass in time to receive 
the shot that would he in its track. But Mr. Wicks, who 
was his host, did not seem to know that he was surrounded 
by perplexities. Mr. Wicks had his own perplexities. He 
had not shot grouse early enough in life to be able to cal- 
culate at a moment’s notice the exact part of the blue sky 
at which to aim to bring down a bird. To use his own 
words, he was unaccustomed to the wearing of “knee- 
pants,” and carrying a “scatter-gun,” with a “ smell-dog ” 
in advance ; so after a few days with the guns, he appeared 
on the moor with a revolver of large calibre, and told his 
head keeper, who uttered a (for him) mild protest against 
the desecration (pronounced deesecration) of sport by the 
introduction of this weapon, that he reckoned that the 
grouses were his own, and there w^as no law to prevent 
him from killing them whatever way his own will and 
conscience suggested to him as advisable. 

He knocked off a few of the heads of the grouse with 
bullets, and broke in the ribs of others, while a consider- 
able number disappeared altogether into the infinite azure 
when he had fired at them. 

But Alfred Bentham, whether he was shooting on his 
own account, or watching the feats of arms on the part of 
his amiable host, had still that uneasy consciousness of 
trying, but failing, to solve the question of the Quest. 
And if the question of the Quest was so formidable to him, 
what would the actual Quest itself be ? 

Then came to him suddenly one night the resolution 
which he had previously lacked. He found that he could 
not live without the Quest ; and he had taken the earliest 
train southward ; and now— well, now he was experienc- 
ing all the joys that a man of action knows on entering 
the arena. He would have liked his friend Felise de Li- 


THR WOMAN ACTS. 


273 


gueres to come upon him as lie sat at his little dining-table 
in the window of the hotel, overlooking the Channel, 
with its fleets of steamers and stately ships sailing on, not 
to their havens under the hill, hut to do battle with the 
seas for many days and nights. If Felise could but know 
that, only by some minutes he had missed being aboard 
one of those steamers — it was out of sight now -surely she 
would be convinced that he was a man of action at last. 

He made some inquiries regarding the departure of the 
steamer for Madeira ; and he found that, although the 
next one belonging to the same line as the Conswater 
Castle would not leave for another ten days, he could ob- 
tain in two days a passage to the island by another line. 
But he was assured that the carvings in the saloon in this 
steamer were not at all equal to those in the vessels of the 
other line. 

He laughed at the words of these detractors. Carv- 
ings ! What was any form of art to him now ? 

He returned to London by a night train, and drove to 
his rooms. If he had been in time for the steamer he 
would have sailed in her, and have ti’usted to luck to sup- 
ply him with the equivalent to his dressing-bag ; now, 
however, that he had time and to spare, he thought he 
might as well pack his portmanteau. But the fact of his 
being able to set out in decency did not deprive him of the 
consciousness of having been wulling to set out on this en- 
terprise with neither staff nor scrip. 

Before he slept that night he had covered with brown 
paper that big blank canvas which he replaced on his 
easel, and in the course of an hour he had made a design 
in charcoal of foliage — apples shining among gnarled 
boughs, maidens with flowing draperies reclining in va- 
rious attitudes on a slope, while far beneath in a bay a 
Greek galley swung at anchor. 

He felt that he could begin his picture the next day — 
as a matter of fact, he felt for just one moment something 
akin to regret that circumstances would not allow of his 
beginning it quite so soon. Only for that one moment, 
however, did his feeling last. How could it last longer, 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


m 

knowing as he did that it was the consciousness of being 
engaged in a great enterprise that made his picture pos- 
sible ? While he had sat irresolute in front of that canvas 
ii month before, it had remained blank ; but now it was 
covered with the lines of a design that should bring him 
fame and a purchaser. 

He went to his bed and had a dream, not of many 
maidens, but of one — one who reclined beneath the golden 
apple-trees of the Hesperides, the red gold of her hair 
fxowing around her until she seemed to be wrapped in the 
golden glory of such a sun.set as he had never seen — such 
a sunset as he knew he might despair to paint. 

A letter came to him before he left his rooms. It was 
written by his father’s partner in business at Rio de Ja- 
neiro, and it informed him that the writer had become 
rather uneasy at having failed to receive any communica- 
tion save one, from Mr. Bentham since he had landed in 
England the previous April. The writer wondered if 
Alfred was in touch with his father ; he thought it un- 
likely that he would be, or some v/ord regarding the rec- 
onciliation would have been sent to the writer. 

Alfred was amazed to receive this letter, and to learn 
for the first time that his father had been or was (as he 
might believe) in England. He could not pretend to him- 
self that he had such an affection for his father as wmuld 
have been his if he had been treated differently by his 
father. He had not seen him, nor had he received any 
communication from him, for five years ; but still lie 
could not help feeling that it would be a satisfaction to 
him to take his place by his father’s side and to let the 
dead past bury its dead. The desire to greet his father 
once more, now that, by his own exertions, he had reached 
a high position as an artist, had now and again come 
strongly upon him — had he not expressed a wish to that 
effect to his friend Maurice Wentworth on the night of 
the Odysseus supper ? And now here w^as a letter that 
made him feel convinced that his father was in England 
— had been in England \-'hile every one was talking of the 
“Last Voyage of Odysseus.” 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


275 


The newspapers that had not dealt critically with the 
pictures, had dealt freely with Mr. Wicks in connection 
with their purchase ; and the entertainment given by Mr. 
Wicks at Danesfort had helped to keep public attention 
directed upon the pictures ; how, then, did it come that his 
father had never sent him a single line expressing a wish 
to see him ? 

Alfred was greatly disturbed by this letter. The writer 
was clearly under the impression that Mr. Bentham’s visit 
to England was made with a view of becoming reconciled 
to his son, who some years before had disobeyed him on a 
point that he considered vital. But Alfred himself had 
received no message — not a single word — from his father 
concerning his hope (if he had a hope) of reconciliation or 
any other matter. 

What course was he to adopt in regard to this letter ? 
That was the matter which it was necessary for him to de- 
cide without delay. But he walked about the streets for 
the greater part of the day without having arrived at any 
solution of the question. He did not know what he 
should do — he did not know if he would be justified in do- 
ing anything. Then there flashed upon him the thought: 
Should he remain in England until this matter was 
cleared up ? 

That was a question within a question. He answered 
it by driving to the agents of the steamer that was to sail 
for Madeira the next day.- He took a passage to that 
island. 

He had become a man of action. He had set bis hand 
to the plough, and he would let nothing interfere with his 
completion of the furro^v. He had made up his mind to 
enter upon the greatest enterprise of his life— he had 
come to place it before even the painting of his greatest 
picture — and he would go through with it at all haz- 
ards. 

He crushed the letter into his pocket once more and 
contented himself by writing to his correspondent at Eio, 
confessing his entire ignorance of his father’s movements, 
and asking for some additional information in regard to 


27(5 


ONE PAIR BAUanTER. 


tlie date at which his father had left Brazil, and the route 
by which he had travelled to England. 

The next day he took the train to Belhaven ; and that 
was how, four days later, Philippa Liscomb, walking in 
the lovely gardens of the Quinta Guachia, near Funchal, 
an hour after sunrise, found herself face to face with Al- 
fred Benthain, and cried out in surprise. 

Before the flush of surprise had completely suffused her 
face, he had caught both her hands —the fresh roses that 
they had held lay at her feet — and said, 

I have tried to live without seeing you — I have tried 
to live without loving you — I have tried to live without 
you. I have failed.” 

“ And that — that — that is why you are here,” she said, 
mechanically. She had not recovered from her surprise. 
She was looking at him strangely. She seemed unable to 
grasp the idea of his being present. The wash of the waves 
on the rocks beneath the garden mingled with the crash of 
the rollers on the beach of smooth stones below Funchal. 

“ That is why I am here,” he said at length. 

“ Had you a good passage ? ” she asked. 

“ Philippa,” he cried — real agony was in his voice — ‘‘ tell 
me that I may love you.” 

She kept her eyes fixed upon his face. He saw that 
they became filled with tears. A little sob was in her 
throat. Then she turned her eyes to the sea horizon. He 
tried to gain something from them; he gazed at them 
until it was a pain to him ; but her eyes told him nothing. 
Then she looked down. 

“ My poor roses ! ” she said. 

“ Ah ! ” he cried, dropping her hands with a motion 
that suggested that he was flinging them away from him. 
“Ah, I have come to no purpose.” 

“ What is your purpose ? ” she said. 

“ You know it, Philippa,” he cried. “ I have told you 
that I love you. Can you give me some love ? ” 

“ I think I can,” she replied. “ I never will love any 
one else. You are the truest man I ever met. I believe 
that I can love you.” 


•THE WOMAN ACTS. 


277 


There was a note of reservation in her confession, he 
thought ; but that thought only lasted a moment, then the 
full wave of his joy rose within him, and swept away on 
its crest all doubts — all perplexities — all vain questionings, 
just as that wave which was breaking on the beach swept 
along with a seething hiss the innumerable pebbles among 
which it plunged. 

He looked away from her face to the sea after she had 
spoken. Three waves had time to fall upon the beach, 
sending their sound rolling through the air and along the 
coast, before he turned to her again. 

His face was pale with the passion that thrilled through 
him. He did not need to take her hands as he had done 
before. He did not need to clasp her in his arms. 

‘‘ It is enough,” he said. “ I could not live without you. 
You have given me life.” 

In silence they walked up the path cut through thou- 
sands of flowering shrubs and great parterres of flaming 
flowers, to the quinta. Mrs. Bennett Wyse was sitting on 
the verandah at the side of a table bearing fruits equal in 
variety to those which Eve provided for the archangel. 
At the other side of the table her husband sat breakfasting 
off a mighty cigar and some bundles of papers dealing with 
the infinitesimal fluctuations of a South African mine 
w^hich he had acquired for eighty-five thousand pounds 
early in April, and had sold the last week in August for 
two hundred and sixty thousand, having in the interim 
earned sixty thousand by working it. 

“ Heavens ! ” cried the Queen Poppy, starting up. 
‘‘ There is Phil coming to breakfast with Alfred Bentham. 
Heavens! what can have brought him here ? ” 

“A tub,” said her husband, without raising his eyes 
from his papers. “A tub. The mail is not due for two 
days yet.” 

They stood beneath the verandah. The Queen Poppy 
was leaning over the rail with the trailing passion flowers 
quivering above her head. 

‘‘ What on earth ? ” she cried. “ Oh, this is too won- 
derful ! How is it that you are here, Mr. Bentham ? ” 


278 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ My picture,” lie said. “ My new picture, you know: 
‘ The Quest of the Golden Fleece ’ — that is to be its name ; 
and — well, this is the Garden of the Hesperides. These are 
the Fortunate Islands. . . . You understand ? ” 

“ Thoroughly — oh yes, I understand. And have they 
proved fortunate for your Quest ? ” she asked. 

“ The picture is only begun,” said he. 

“ Come up here, Philippa the Golden, as Felise used to 
call you — come up here and kiss me.” 

“How are you, Bentham ? ” said Mr. Bennett Wyse, 
pushing aside the enormous blooms of the trailer. “ I sup- 
pose you are come to tell us that you are the happiest man 
in the world.” 

“ No, no, not that,” said his wife. “ Sir George says 
that when a man comes to you and tells you that he is the 
happiest man in the world, he has either just made a fool 
of himself or is at the point of being made a fool of by 
some one else. ” 

“ Ah ! ” cried the husband. 


CHAPTER IX. 

REFERS MAINLY TO THE ANNIHILATION OF THE QUESTIONS 
BY THE QUEST. 

What days were those spent on the slopes of the lovely 
island above the harbour of Funchal ! They rode together 
among the long lines of sugar canes -among the vines. 
They swung side by side in hammocks borne on bamboos 
between the shoulders of untiring natives clad in white 
garments — grateful to the eye that grew weary of the em- 
erald green of the hillside. Above them the deep blue sky 
knew no cloud after the morning mists had been swept 
away from the ridges of the island slope; around them was 
the sparkling emerald of the vegetation, below them was 
the turquoise blue of the sea in the morning, which 
changed to the violet of Philippa's eyes when the sun 
had set. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


279 


What days were those they spent on the sea in the 
yacht that Mr. Bennett Wyse had bought — at about half 
its value — from an early impoverished peer, who had vis- 
ited the island so as to be out of reach of his creditors! 
The air seemed full of love — the breathing of it intoxicated 
every one. All hearts were full of it. And then the nights 
when they sat on the verandahs, with the luscious scent of 
the fruits around them, and in the distance, above the lights 
of the white town, music filled the air, and mingled with 
the harmonies of the breaking waters, before its sound fell 
upon their ears 1 

This was what love meant. He knew it all now. He 
had waited long and held the cup at arm’s length ; but now 
it was his, and he drank of it. Her gleaming white shoul- 
ders were like a ripe fruit beneath his lips as they sat to- 
gether between the stars of the heaven and the stars of the 
sea. He tasted and thirsted, and was glad. 

And she — well, she loved his love of her. 

She wondered .if it was ever granted by heaven to a 
woman to have beside her for ever the first man she loved. 
Did heaven hate woman so bitterly as to lay upon all 
women the curse that had the semblance of a blessing — 
the curse of a second love ? 

What was left for her in the world ? It was a world of 
second love to her now. But she would be good to the 
man who loved her now. How could she help loving one 
wh,o was so much better than the other man ? Why had 
she not loved him months ago, as she had made up her 
mind to do ? What was that glamour which had come 
over her, causing her eyes to be turned in another direc- 
tion ? She would be happy with him, and he would never 
know a day’s unhappiness with her. This was the type of 
man whom she had always meant to love. Such a man as 
this had been ever before her eyes, when she had had her 
thoughts, in the old days, of loving and being loved. He 
was a true man and his name v/as known throughout the 
world. She would love him and cherish him, and that 
love which she had always held to be the best thing on 
earth would be their companion for ever. 


2S0 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


But one night when slie had parted from him on the 
verandah and had gone to her room, she began to think 
over the curious circumstances of her first meeting with 
Alfred Bentham. She had not thought over these inci- 
dents for a long time. Now and again she had had an 
impulse to send him that document with which she had 
been entrusted by his father ; but she had always hesitated 
to take sucli a step. Of course, her first thought, after she 
had hidden away the paper in her bag, was to win the love 
of Alfred Bentham by giving him the document which 
would make him rich. She wondered now, as she went 
out upon the balcony in front of her window and listened 
to the wild cries of the drivers of the bullock sleighs sound- 
ing from the slopes through the still night — to the fitful 
twanging of a guitar which some serenader was playing 
in the nearest quinta garden — how she could ever have 
had so detestable a thought as that of purchasing the love 
of any man ! Ah, she had gone to Steeplecross with all 
the meanness and vulgarity of Baymouth clinging to her. 
That horrid thought of hers was in sympathy with the 
schemes of the sordid girls among whom she had lived. 
She could never have such a thought now. 

But the question had still to be faced : what course did 
she intend to pursue in respect of the will with which — as 
though she were the commonidace heroine of a mediocre 
romance, embodied either between paper covers luridly 
illustrated, or between the wings of a stage at a theatre 
with a capacious pit— she had been entrusted by a dying 
man ? 

How could she go to the man who wa,s now smoking a 
cigar by the side of Mr. Bennett Wyse on the verandah, 
just beneath the balcony on which she was standing— she 
could hear the occasional remarks of the two men, thous'h 
fortunately, she could not hear tlie open-air story which, 
after a while, Mr. Bennett Wyse began to tell (Mr. Bennett 
Wyse did not mean that it should travel very far)— how 
could she go to Alfred with the document in her hand and 
tell him that she had received it from his father who she 
had pretended was hers ? This would probably be the 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


281 


right course for her to adopt, she thought ; but whatever 
courage she had to send Maurice Wentworth from her side 
into the arms of Alice Heathfield, she felt that she had not 
courage to go to Alfred with the confession of the fraud 
that she had practised. 

What would be gained by her doing so ? 

Nothing— absolutely nothing. He did not need the 
money which he would obtain ^she supposed) so soon as 
the will was put into his hands. She would give the will 
to him when he was married to her. 

“ I cannot lose him,” she said as she retreated from her 
balcony to her room, and stood wdthout closing her win- 
dow, looking seaward. “I cannot lose him !” and the 
loud laugh of Mr. Bennett Wyse at some point of humour 
reached by the development of the rather peculiar inci- 
dents which formed the basis of his story, reached her 
ears. “ I cannot lose him !” and the great wave crashed 
along the beach. 

That was how she had come to think of him.. If she 
did not love him as she had loved — had loved ? ah, there 
was no past tense in her love — she still felt that she could 
not lose Alfred Bentham. She dared not do anything that 
would jeopardise his love for her. 

But w^ould the fact of his becoming acquainted with the 
part that she had pla^^ed at the Steeplecross inn jeopardise 
his love for her ? Had the part that Maurice Wentworth 
had played in regard to herself jeopardised the love that 
she bore him ? 

Ah, no ; she knew too well that his dishonesty, his de- 
ceit, his treachery, his marriage, had made no difference to 
her. But could she hope that Alfred loved her as she 
loved Maurice ? 

She dared not tell him until they were married; and 
then he would understand how she had been guilty of 
fraud in order to save her father from the consequences 
of his fraud. 

She went to her bed, feeling how extraordinary was 
the change that had taken place in her nature since that 
terrible night spent at the inn at Steeplecross, When she 


282 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


thought of what she had done— of her plans and her plots 
— of hei’ intention not to lose sight of Teddy — of her as- 
surance that her possession of the will would constitute a 
bond between her and Alfred Bentham, it actually seemed 
to her that she was thinking of some other woman. 

The contempt that she felt for the woman who could 
act as she had done at Steeplecross was as great as she had 
ever felt for the sordid women of Bay mouth. 

And yet she went asleep, having formed the resolution 
not to hand to Alfred until she was his wife the will that 
would tell him how his father had relented towards him. 

When she went down to the usual verandah breakfast 
in the morning, it was to hear Mr. Bennett Wyse remark 
to Alfred, as he handed him what seemed an open letter: 

‘‘ Hang me if I know what it means ! Do you fancy 
that your dad is still in England ? Do you think that it is 
likely that he would remain in hiding all that time — since 
last April ? ” 

“I don't see why he should,” said Alfred, as he greeted 
Philippa, and placed a seat for her at the v-erandah table. 

“ We are talking about a letter that I got just the day be- 
fore I left England from my father’s partner at Rio,” he 
added, looking at her. 

“ Really ? ” said she appearing to be in a dilemma 
whether to choose a custard apple, a bunch of grapes, or a 
banana, from the dishes before her. “And what did the 
letter tell you ? ” 

“We were discussing that,” said Alfred. “It appears 
from this letter that my father left Rio for England some 
months ago — early in April, in fact ; he did not say be- 
fore leaving that his object was to become reconciled to 
me — you heard of our unhappy differences ? ” 

“Yes, yes, indeed.” 

“ But my correspondent expresses the opiiiioii that he 
went to England to seek a reconciliation— he was in very 
weak health, and for some months previously he had been 
uneasy about himself. At any rate he came to England 
—the man tells me that he received one letter from him 
apparently written on landing— but, since then, not a 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


283 


smgle line. Knowing my address lie wrote to me telling 
me this and inquiring if my father was with me.” 

‘‘ It occurs to me that it’s a case for police investiga- 
tion,’’ said Mr. Bennett Wyse. “ Did you not go to a first- 
class man for advice ? ” 

“ I have come to you,” said Alfred. “ I only got the 
letter the day before I sailed.” 

“You might have waited a week or two.” 

“ I didn’t think so.’’ 

Mr. Bennett Wyse laughed, and said “ Ah ! ” After a 
little pause he added, “ Take my advice, and, if you don’t 
hear from your dad, send a cable to Eio to learn the port 
at which he arrived, and the place in England at which 
the one letter was dated. Then get a first-class man to 
work out the whole business for you. If the old man is 
still in the land of the living you should be put in touch 
with him inside a week. If he’s not in the land of the 
living — well, I’m not so sure about it.” 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse came upon the verandah at that 
moment, carrying a bundle of letters which had arrived 
for her by the mail steamer that had dropped anchor in 
the bay early that morning. 

What was the news ? Oh, nothing worth writing 
about. 

London had become recolonised to a certain extent. 
Its population now consisted of six families. They had 
arrived in the course of a single night. Lady Annadale 
said— Lady Annadale’s letter was at the top of the bundle 
— and they had come to stay for a whole month. Lady 
Annadale fancied that Mrs. Bennett Wyse had not heard 
of the death of the unhappy Countess of Sandycliffe ; but 
there she was wrong. Mrs. Bennett Wyse had learned all 
about that melancholy event. The bereaved earl had been 
seen wearing a mourning pin and other equally powerful 
evidences of the grief that overshadowed him ; but other- 
wise he was looking ten years younger, and, after all, he 
was only fifty-five. The same could not be said of Mrs. 
Wentworth, at least as regards the renewing of her youth 
like the eagles. It was plain that married life and its re- 
19 


284 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


sponsibilities did not agree with her. She had returned 
to London, looking the picture of wretchedness, and her 
husband was not a picture of hapj^iuess. He had been 
seen in a music hall. Tommy Trafford had returned from 
Norway, and was as jaunty as though he Avere fifty -five 
instead of twenty-four. Mr. Alfred Bentham had been in 
town for a day or two, but had rushed off to Carlsbad to 
get a drink of water. 

“ That’s the news according to Lady Annadale,” laughed 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “ And now to breakfast. What were 
you talking about ? ” 

“The weather and the banana crop,” said Alfred. 
“ Poor Maurice ! ” 

“ Poor yourself ! ” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “ If a man 
with his eyes open marries a girl who is perpetually beg- 
ging of her friends to have the goodness to run their eyes 
down her shoulder blades to see if there are not indications 
of incipient wings, deserves — well, to be mated to an an- 
gel.” 

“ You’re vindictive, my Poppy — mated to an angel ! ” 
remarked Mr. Bennett Wyse. “When I last saw your 
shoulder blades— that’s some years ago now — there was no 
sign of a sprouting feather.” 

“ I don’t fancy quill-gi’owing as an industry,” said she. 
“ I may have a soul ” 

“ A trace of one — a sort of wash, a varnish,” said the 
husband. 

“ But I don’t set myself out to make my neighbours 
acquainted with its working,” said the Poppy. “ There’s 
nothing so irritating as a daily account of the working of 
a soul, and that a one-horse kind of soul after all.” 

“ I know : a celluloid-tipped, nickel-plated, clump-soled 
sort of soul,” said the husband. “You’re quite right, 
Poppy ; it is very irritating not to be invited to a wedding 
that attracts attention.” 

Alfred gathered up the bananas, the apricots and the 
custard apples that strewed the fioor of the verandah after 
this. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


285 


CHAPTER X. 

GIVES A CIRCUMSTANTIAL ACCOUNT OF HOW A YOUNG 

WOMAN KEPT HER EYES FIXED UPON A CONVENT 

THOUGH THERE WAS A MAN BESIDE HER. 

“ My dearest,” said Alfred, “ do you know of any reason 
why we should not get married— you and I— within a 
week ? ” 

” Is there any reason why we should ? ” she inquired. 
He was stretched on the ground at her feet in the cool 
shade of the trees of the quinta garden. 

There is one,” he replied. “ I feel that what Mr. Ben- 
nett Wyse said at breakfast is right: no time should be 
lost in setting about the solution of the mystery— I think 
it is a mystery— of my father. You can understand how 
strongly I feel on this matter, I am sure.” 

“ I think I can,” said she. “ I have known for a long 
time how good jmu are— how good you have been. I 
heard the sad story of your mother. You acted nobly. 
Your father was cruel.” 

“ It is not for me to blame him,” said the son. “ He 
was a man to be pitied. Think of him — alone in that 
distant place, deserted, first by his wife, then by his 
son ! ” 

“ He would have allowed her to starve — he would have 
allowed jmu to starve for trying to help her. I heard the 
whole story from Felise de Ligueres. You saved your 
mother from the worst that can befal a woman.” 

“ No,” he said, “ the worst had already befallen her. 
We will say nothing more about her. She is dead, and 
her one sin died with her. It is about my father I have 
been thinking.” 

“ Why did you not remain in England until you had 
solved the mystery ? ” she asked. “ You say you got that 
letter the day before you left for Madeira.” 

“ An hour after I got the letter I had taken my passage 
to Madeira,” said he. “ I was for two months trying if it 


2SG 


OXE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


was possible for me to live without you ; but when I had 
learned the truth, I could not come out here too quickly. 
You have heard of men losing the great opportunity of 
their lives by a delay of five minutes — by the delay of a 
single minute ? Every hour there came to me the thought 
that I should arrive by your side only to find that I was 
too late by an hour. I had set my hand to the plough : I 
would let nothing check me until I had found out whether 
my life was worth everything to me, or nothing.” 

“ And have you found it out, Alfred ? ” she asked. 

He gave a laugh— the laugh of the confident lover. 

That was to be her answer. 

“ Have you found out whether your life is worth every- 
thing to you — or nothing ? ” she asked. 

“ Have you found it out yet ? ” he cried. “ Is my life 
everything to you— or nothing ?” 

“ It is everything to me,” she said in a low tone. “ It 
is my life.” 

“ You are sure of that ? Then why put the question to 
me ? Are you not sure of me ? ” 

“ I am wondering whether, in after years, you will think 
of your trip to Madeira as the best or the worst step of your 
life,” said she, after a pause. “ In this matter there is only 
a best and a worst. For those who love there is only black 
and white — there is only yes and no. There is no inter- 
mediate stage — there is no compromise.” 

“ I know that,” said he. “ I know that with you all 
must be best. I can look the future in the face with you 
beside me.” 

There was another pause before she said in the same 
low tone : 

“ I wonder if we shall ever be married.” 

“ Great heavens ! ” he cried, starting into a sitting pos- 
ture, and catching one of her hands. “ Great heavens ! 
my beloved, how can you have such a thought ? ” 

“ I have it,” she said. 

“ Then we shall make it impossible by getting married 
next week,” he cried. “ And this brings us round again 
to the original question that I asked. Do you know of 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


287 


any reason why we should not get married within a 
week ? ” 

“ I am wondering,” she said, “ if anything of your 
father’s nature has become part of yours.” 

“ What do you mean, Philippa, my beloved ? ” 

“ He was the most unforgiving man of whom I ever 
heard. Can you forgive ? ” 

“ If you continue in this morbid strain I fear that it 
will be impossible for me to forgive you. My dear love, 
let us talk about next week— there is nothing morbid about 
marriage.” 

“ Can you forgive ? ” she asked. 

“ What is the good of leading up to a discussion of such 
abstract questions ? ” he cried. “ Men and w^omen know 
very little about themselves until they are suddenly put to 
the test. Introspection is only a modern name for self- 
deception. I said so to you before. I did not think a year 
ago— six months ago — that I was capable of an absorbing 
love ; but now — now — now I am at your feet.” 

“ Are those who are capable of great love capable of 
great forgiveness ? ” she said. “ Those who have loved 
much are to be forgiven much. But do they themselves 
forgive much ?” 

“You arc in earnest,” he said, rising slowly to his feet 
and standing in front of her with his hands behind his 
back. “ You are in earnest, I see. What have you got to 
tell me ? ” 

She looked up to his face. It frightened her. Her 
purpose wavered. She laughed. 

“ I have nothing to tell you,” she cried ; and again she 
gave a little laugh. “ Only it seems that men and women 
nowadays spend the few hours before their marriage— in 
some books, the evening of their marriage day— telling 
one another shocking stories of their past life. Why 
shouldn’t w^e ? Why shouldn’t I tell you — tell you. . . . 
God pity me ! I must toll you— I must— even if you 
should not forgive me.” 

She put her hands up to her face, shaking with sobs ; 
but no tear fell. 


288 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ My God ! what can she mean ? ” said Alfred, in a 
whisper that had a note of terror in it. He took a step 
towards her — but only one. He stood there rigid— silent 
— waiting. 

So he was standing during the long interval that elapsed 
before her hands dropi^ed into her lap, and she looked up 
to his face with eyes that now were overflowing. ' 

‘‘I thought that I need not tell you,” she said, “until 
— until afterwards. But I cannot escape from the burden 
that is laid upon me. I have been acting a lie to you and 
to every one else since the first day we met at that village 
near the coast — a lie ; for the man who I had seen die in 
that inn was not my father, but yours.” 

Still he did not speak — he did not even start. He waited 
with his eyes fixed ujion her face. 

“ It was nece.ssary to help my father to escape from the 
country, and we had gone away together, when by chance 
I learned that an old man was within a few days of death 
at the hotel at Utterhaven. I fancied I perceived my op- 
portunity in this. I followed the man to Steeplecross, 
where he broke down. While my father escaped to a ship 
bound for North America, I went to the inn and allowed 
it to be understood that the man who was dying was my 
father. I watched by him until the end came. He was 
lying dead when you were in the inn. That was why I 
was overcome when Maurice Wentworth called out your 
name. Your father had told me your name. He told me 
to say to you that he had behaved cruelly towards you. 
He told me to give you — this.” 

She handed him the will. She actually had been car- 
rying it about with her for some days, although she had 
made up her mind to tell him nothing about its existence 
until she had become his wife. 

He took the paper — its oblong folds had been doubled 
in order that it might suit her pocket — and his fingers 
crushed it. He did not open out the folds. He stood with 
the paper crushed in one hand, and the other hand 
clenched likewise. 

Then his eyes left her face and gazed out to the sea. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


289 


The signal gun of the mail steamer which was to leave 
in an hour for England broke the silence. She looked at 
him while he took out his watch and glanced at it. Then 
she knew all that had happened. 

“ Alfred,” she said, “ I asked you a question just now ; 
you have not answered it.” 

“I have,” he said slowly, turning and looking at her. 
‘‘You asked me if I was capable of a great act of forgive- 
ness. I told you that I did not know myself well enough 
to say yes or no ; but now I know, and you also know 
what my answer is.” 

“ To understand all is to forgive all,” said she. “ Can 
you not understand how a girl who has seen nothing of 
the world — whose knowledge of the world is no greater 
than her knowledge of a sordid town which she hates — 
may be led into an unworthy act in the hope of escaping 
from a life that she loathes — in the hope of securing her 
father’s safety ? ” 

“ I can understand that,” he said. “ But I cannot under- 
stand any woman who is worthy of the love of a man, living 
a fraud for months. A great sin would be easier for me to 
forgive than a sordid vulgar trick such as you have de- 
scribed to me. Oh, my God ! I meant that we should be 
so happy together ! I thought that my hour had come.” 

“ Alfred — Alfred ! Indeed I know myself now. You 
may ti’ust me for ever,” she said, not in a pleading tone, 
but in a voice that did not falter. 

“ Can I ? Can I trust you ? ” he said. “ I distrust you 
even at the present moment. Philippa, look at me ; and 
tell me, if you dare, that you love me — that you love me 
better than you do any man in the world.” 

She looked up to his face, her lips moved, but no sound 
came. 

“Philippa — Philippa!” — his was the pleading voice — 
“tell me that you love me better than any man in the 
world, and I will say that there is nothing for me to for- 
give.” 

He had thrown himself at her feet, and had caught 
one of her hands in both of his— the paper that he still 


290 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


held was once more crushed into her hand. She tore her 
hand from contact with it, uttering a cry as if her flesh 
had been seared. Then her hands fell into her lap. She 
looked over his head up to the white convent, where the 
Angelus had just begun to ring. 

“ Have you no word for me, Philippa — my love ? ” he 
cried. “Look at me — let your eyes look at mine, and I 
will say that my question has been answered, Philippa.” 

She kept her eyes fixed upon the white con vent. 

The bell continued tolling. 

She was conscious of a cry of pain from the man at her 
feet. 

She kept her eyes fixed upon the white convent. 

She was alone. 

She sat there listening to the ringing of the bell as the 
island slopes began to be clothed in the purple of the 
swiftly passing twilight, and the sea became darkly blue, 
save where the surf encircled the neck of the Loo Rock 
with glistening pearls. When the bell had ceased there 
came to her ears the sound of an Ave Maria sung by 
women kneeling in the garden af a neighboring quinta. 

When the hymn had died away in the rich darkness of 
the evening, there were no sounds for a long time in the 
air, save the musically wild cries of the drivers of the bul- 
lock sleighs — the shouts of the men with the high-beaked 
surf-boats on the beach. Then once more the roar Of the 
mail gun burst upon the still air and rolled along the shore 
and pealed in sharp echoes among the chasms of the island 
slope. 

She got upon her feet, and looked down to Funchal 
Harbour. She saw the lights of the mail steamer gleam- 
ing on the deck and in blurred reflections in the water. 
As she watched the lights they began to rhove ; the steamer 
went round in a great curve, and then m.ade for the sea. 

In a few minutes the lights had disappeared beyond the 
western headland. 

She knew that Alfred Bentham was aboard that steamer. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


291 


CHAPTER XI. 

QUOTES AN OPINION REGARDING THE ARTISTIC TEMPERA- 
MENT, AND GIVES AN EXAMPLE OF ANOTHER. 

% 

“ He is goDe,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse, when Philippa 
entered the quinta. “ Was there ever such a man for sud- 
den action ? I suppose that’s what is called the artistic 
temperament : it excuses a variety of things ; an English 
Divorce Court judge said the other day that it excused the 
worst lapse — one of the sort by which he earned his daily 
bread. Alfred, it seems to me, rushes from Scotland after 
us to London, and then just misses by a minute or two our 
steamer at Belhaven — fancy his jumping aboard without 
even a bag ! — he told me all. Thank Heaven, we were 
spared that. Then he strolls up one morning and pro- 
poses to you before breakfast — did ever mortal man before 
propose to a girl before breakfast ? — and now he rushes 
into the house, picks up his bag, throws it to a porter whom 
he overtook on the road, and is off by the mail, saying only, 
‘My father ! — Philippa will understand.’ If he had gone 
into finance instead of the oil and canvas business he 
would have made a fortune, my husband says. . It’s that 
sort of decided action that makes the money. But do you 
understand, Phil ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” said Phil ; “I understand.” 

“It must be the artistic temperament,” continued Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse. “ It takes odd forms sometimes : soft hats, 
co-respondencies, plain wives, whisky and water, the mane 
— the artistic temperament excuses all these eccentricities. 
It is providential that Alfred Bentham is no worse than 
impulsive ; he might have worn a red tie.” 

Philippa went upstairs to her room without speaking 
another word, and without listening to another from her 
fluent hostess. 

Was it strange that the feeling of which she was most 
conscious at that moment was one of intense relief ? Once 
before she had a consciousness of the dropping of a burden 


292 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


from her life as the burden of Christian the Pilgrim — she 
had been compelled to read, Sunday after Sunday, when 
a child, the thrilling adventures of the Christian romance 
founded on the best pagan models — had fallen from him. 
Now the same feeling returned to her. 

She had got rid of the thing that had bden weighing on 
her mind for so long. She had known that one day she 
would have to hand that paper to Alfred Bentham, and 
she had dreaded the approach of that day. Now it was all 
over. She felt that she had separated herself for ever from 
that creature of the play writer’s fancy — the Woman who 
Hides the Will. The tawdriness of the footlights had 
seemed to cling to her so long as that thing was in her 
possession ; but now it had dropped away from her 
life. 

And then she began to realise that Alfred Bentham had 
also passed out of her life. Was that reflection a relief to 
her also ? She could scarcely tell. She had been willing to 
marry him, and she had felt that her marriage with him 
would not be one without love. At some moments she 
believed that she loved him. Was that sort of love a sound 
enough foundation for marriage ? 

It might have been. At any rate she had not shrunk 
from marrying him. But she had shrunk from the crime 
of telling him that she loved him better than any man on 
earth. She recollected how she had kept her eyes fixed 
upon the convent glistening on the mountain slope ; and 
how she had felt that, if it had been necessary for her to 
keep her eyes fixed upon it from twilight until midnight, 
she would have done so rather than give him the assur- 
ance for which he had asked. 

Then he had left her — he had passed out of her life. 

“ My love — my one dear love! ” she said standing with 
clasped hands before her open window. “How could I 
even think that treason against you ? I did not think it. 
He could not make me even think it. I gave him no sign. 
I have lost him — I have lost you — but not the love, not the 
love ! ” 

Then came the whirlwind of her passion over her. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


293 


flinging lier on her bed in a torrent of tears, through which 
she cried, 

“ Oh God, let me die— let me die ! ” 

For half an hour she felt that death would be welcome. 
What could life give her ? 

A few months ago she had longed for all that she had 
gained in the world. She had been ready to lay her plans 
— to work out her schemes at almost any risk— any sacri- 
fice — to attain her ends, and to become a personage in so- 
ciety. She had passed from the sordid existence of Bay- 
mouth to the brilliancy of a society all of wdiose incidents 
are chronicled in the newspapers. Perhaps it was not the 
best society in the world— so the people said who were not 
in it ; but it was a society that made a stir in the world, 
and that Royalty as well as Genius favoured ; and Roy- 
alty and Genius cannot be far wrong. 

She had contributed to the stir ; she knew that ; no 
one could deny her triumphs ; and yet now — for half an 
hour — she felt that death was better than life. 

By the time her maid had knocked at her door and re- 
minded her that she had to dress to go out to dine at the 
house of the head of the great wine-growers of the island, 
Philippa felt herself equal to meeting prosperity or adver- 
sity with equal thanks. 

She gave a laugh as she said, 

“ Shall I be admired to-night, Fanchette ? What do 
you say?” 

Fanchette averred, with all the fluency of which the 
French language is capable, that mademoiselle looked in- 
teresting to a marvel ; and that by the aid of a toilette 
which Fanchette was able to suggest, mademoiselle could 
not but look ravissante. 

“ Thank heaven ! ” cried mademoiselle, with a laugh 
that had a true note of triumph in it. “ Thank lieaven, I 
can still compel the admiration of men and the hatred of 
women.” 

Eked out with a few gestures, the reply of Fanchette 
conveyed a good deal that should have been satisfactory 
to mademoiselle. But the maid, when she had got out- 


294 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


side tlie door, shook her head gravely. She had never 
before heard mademoiselle make the least reference to her 
own attractions and their legitimate influence. 

‘‘ She has been weeping,” said the maid, becoming trist- 
ful herself at the thought which she uttered while engaged 
in disentangling a pearl from the lace bodice of the gown 
Philippa was to wear that night. “ Yes ; she has been 
weeping. It is only when a woman has had a passionate 
fit of tears that she so far forgets herself as to tell the 
truth — to say what she feels.” 

But while her maid was communicating the result of 
her experience in confidence to the spirit of the gown, 
Philippa was reading two letters which she had received 
in the morning. She had read them once before, and had 
put them away in a drawer of her dressing-case : they 
had contained nothing that interested her in the morning ; 
but now she thought that it was just possible that she 
might come upon some paragraph in one of them, or both, 
that she might find worthy of her attention. The result 
showed that her woman’s instinct was not at fault. For 
the first letter contained a carefully worded offer of mar- 
riage from the Earl of Sandycliffe, and the second con- 
tained a very carelessly worded proposal to the same effect 
from Teddy Haven. 

Her interest in both communications was aroused. 
Her recollection of the contents of each had not deceived 
her. 

All the time that the skilful fingers of Fanchette were 
engaged in making her hair seem fascinatingly untidy, 
Philippa was thinking over these letters. Lord Sandy- 
cliffe wrote with iDerfect taste regarding the past and tlie 
future. He could not deny that his first marriage had 
been a failure ; or that his wife, if not capable of a great 
passion, had at least been an extraordinary success as an 
organiser of temperance bazaars. Such women were rare, 
he frankly admitted, and perhaps he had been to blame — 
he was ready, at any rate, to take all the blame upon his 
own shoulders — for the unhappiness of the last few years 
[to be exact, eighteen] of their wedded life ; not a word 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


295 


would he speak against the memory of the dead — as a 
matter of fact it was an uncommonly good memory, as 
her petition for the restitution of conjugal wrongs proved. 
[It was well known that in this petition, presented seven- 
teen years before, the countess had sworn to her ill-treat- 
ment, and applied for more of it.] 

He was not an old man, as old men went nowadays, 
he said ; and although he was a peer, he was still in 
comfortable circumstances, and his settlements she 
would find so liberal that, if she were good enough to 
accept him, she might look forward to a brilliant widow- 
hood. 

That was really what his proposal amounted to. Then 
he touched daintily upon w^hat had passed between him 
and Philippa on the top of the coach returning from Rich- 
mond some months before. It had now and again oc- 
curred to him — and he was strengthened in this imjjres- 
sion by her subsequent bearing towards him — that Miss 
Liscomb had at that time misapprehended his exact mean- 
ing. He could honestly avow that it had never been in 
his mind to suggest to her anything of the character of 
that which he feared she fancied he meant to suggest. 
Surely no denial could be of a more graceful type. It re- 
quired to be read twice over before its delicacy could be 
fully appreciated. 

The next paragraph contained an apology for his being 
a peer. He trusted that she would accept, in mitigation 
of this circumstance, his assurance that he was in no way 
responsible for his accession to the title. As for his carry- 
ing about with him the odium of the hereditary legislator, 
he referred her to the records of the House of Peers, as 
evidence that he had never once discharged the duties ap- 
pertaining to this position. Thus, although he might, he 
allowed, appear at the first blush open to execration, yet it 
would be found, if people took the trouble to look care- 
fully into the matter, that he was personally blameless, so 
far as hereditary legislation was concerned. 

Finally, Lord Sandycliffe apologised for his presump- 
tion in applying for the hand of a lady who might reason- 


20G 


ONE FAIR DAUOriTER. 


ably aspire to an alliance with the proudest stockbroker in 
the City [these were not his exact phrases ; only their 
equivalent]. But he said he had lived long enough — with- 
out being an old man — to know that even brilliancy in 
financial operations may become dimmed, and the haughty 
outside broker find himself in time on a level with the 
humblest duke that ever incurred the hostility of a well- 
paid Labour Member. [Again, these are only the brief 
equivalents to the suitor’s somewhat lengthened and al- 
ways dignified phrases.] 

As a matter of fact he adopted too apologetic a tone in 
this connection ; for although it was perfectly true that 
he was not a regular financier, yet, if he had liked to 
boast, he might have advanced, in mitigation of his short- 
coming in this respect, the fact that three companies in 
the floating of which he had been concerned, had collapsed 
as completely as if none but professional financiers had 
been responsible for their origin. 

It appeared, however, that he was quite content to keep 
this incident in the background, and to come forward, with 
all his deficiencies, as a suitor. 

Teddy Haven’s letter was much shorter than Lord 
Sandycliffe’s, and it was not nearly so well written. Its 
spelling was here and there a little shaky. It referred to 
the charming tranquillity [with one 1] of domestic life 
after the fitful [with two I’s] fever of London society. His 
father had left him — as his dearest Phil had perhaps heard 
— [she had] the sum of one hundred and twenty thousand 
pounds as well as a partnership in “the business’'; the 
will only made it necessary that he should marry wdth 
his mother’s consent ; and his mother had on the day pre- 
vious to his writing been gladly persuaded to give her 
consent to his marrying his dearest Phil, when the days 
of mourning for his father — “ the best dad that ever lived ” 
— were ended. Would not his dearest Phil consent too, 
now that matters had progressed so favourably towards the 
end that he had looked for during the long and dreary 
years that had elapsed since his boyhood ? She would 
have all that heart could wish for and that money could 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 207 

buy [he did not seem conscious of the obvious pleonasm], 
if she would but consent. 

The letter contained the following postscript : 

“ When I called to see you at Battenberg Gardens, I 
found on the doorstep Bentham the painter (so-called), 
and that patent-leather peer, Lord Sandy cliffe. I looked 
up his age in the Peerage in the Baymouth Reference Li- 
brary— it was last year’s Peerage too !— and found that he 
was fifty-four ! Poor old boy ! He looks every day of it. 
Bentham is not up to much.” 

Philippa thought over both these letters while Fan- 
chette was imparting to her hair the artistic disorderliness 
which increased its wonder ; and also while Mr. Bennett 
Wyse was making his remarks on the drive to the house 
where they were to dine, regarding the precipitate charac 
ter of xAlfred Bentham’s flight. He wondered that Philii)- 
pa tolerated such an act of desertion. The fact was, he 
repeated, that Bentham should have placed all matters 
connected with his father’s disappearance en train for de- 
velopment by a professional man, before leaving for Ma- 
deira. For himself, Mr. Bennett Wyse added, he was 
convinced that Bentham’s pig-headed father was alive, 
and in that robust health which pig-headed people invari- 
ably enjoy. 

She thought over the letters all the time that the Portu- 
guese gentleman who had taken her in to dinner was con- 
versing with her in a language which had a word or two 
of French in it as well as a word or two of Spanish and a 
patois of Portuguese. 

Before she went to bed that night she had written her 
replies, though she knevf that there would not be a mail 
to England for two days. She wrote her reply to Lord 
Sandycliffe first, giving him to understand that she con- 
sidered herself to be quite unworthy of the honour he 
proposed confei’ring upon her. She assured him that her 
memory was an excellent one : she could recollect every 
word that Lord Sandycliffe had said during that delight- 
ful drive from Richmond. 

“ My dear Teddy — she wrote in reply to that young 


2DS 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


gentleman’s letter. — “Do you really tvish me to marry 
you ? If you are quite serious^ I will marry you, if only 
out of spite for your patent-leather peers, and your 
painters, whether patent leather or merely tanned. 

“ Ever yours, 

“ We shall be back at Battenberg Gardens on October 
the twenty -fifth.'' 

After all, she reflected, Teddy Haven was the best fel- 
low alive — and he had in cash a considerable sum of 
money. Of course, that did not make him a better fellow, 
but it constituted a guarantee that she could always ap- 
pear before him in attractive gowns. She felt that with 
the aid of a constant supply of attractive gowns she could 
keep his love very closely bound to her. 

She knew that although the golden strands of her hair 
might form very potent manacles for Love, it was a mat- 
ter of tradition that Love was best in silken fetters — if 
brocaded silk, designed after due consultation with Madame 
Lucy Jones, so much the better. 

She liked Teddy so well that she would never have con- 
sented to marry him unless he had been rich. His happi- 
ness was at stake ; for she knew that he would be miser- 
able as the poor husband of a woman who loved, as she 
did, to go richly clad. 

After all, what did it matter whom she might marry — 
now ? 


CHAPTER XII. 

HASTENS TO DESCRIBE A RETURN THAT WAS LOOKED FOR 
AND ANOTHER. 

Philippa did not think it necessary to let her friend 
Poppy know that she had received and answered these 
letters. Poppy assumed that she meant to marry Alfred 
Bentham— she did not correct her— it was really too trifling 
a matter to make a fuss about. Alfred Bentham, Teddy 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


299 


Haven, Lord Sandycliffe — what did it matter which of 
them she was engaged to marry ? She would set Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse right on this point, trivial as it was, when 
they got back to London, and when Teddy turned and 
Alfred didn’t. It would be quite time enough then; and 
if Mrs. Bennett Wyse comj)lained— it was not beyond the 
bounds of possibility that she would — that she had not 
been told of the transfer of Philippa’s affections sooner, 
why then the consequences would not be verj^ serious, for 
she felt certain that Teddy would not place an insuperable 
obstacle in the way of a speedy marriage; and Mrs. Ben- 
nett Wyse might utter her complaints upon the void 
air. 

But Mrs. Bennett Wyse would not, she felt, be greatly- 
hurt at not having been made aware of the fact that it 
was to Teddy Haven and not Alfred Bentham her friend 
Philippa was engaged. Mrs. Bennett Wyse was too great 
a lover of the unconventional to quarrel with her friend 
for the decidedly unconventional course which she had 
adopted in this particular matter. 

For a week Philippa thought about Alfred Bentham 
with some sadness of regret; she had always liked him 
greatly, and she actually liked him better than ever on 
account of his precipitate flight. He had forgiven her for 
the fraud that she had perpetrated, but he had left her be- 
cause she had practically admitted that she had loved an- 
other man better. 

That was a right thing for him to do, and she liked him 
for doing it. Besides, had he not relieved her from the 
oppression of that burden which had weighed upon her ? 
Had he not taken away that horrid document which had 
been thrust upon her without her having any voice in re- 
ceiving it or rejecting it ? She liked him better for this 
than for anything he had said or done — not even excepting 
his leaving her ; and thus it was that she thought of him 
— tenderly, regretfully— for a week. 

The rupture that had come to their engagement was 
after all no serious matter. She believed that she would 
be very happy as his wife— almost as happy as she had 
20 


300 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


been before marrying him. She was quite satisfied now 
to be about to marry Teddy instead of him. 

Such is the condition of the woman who has found out 
what love means. 

But had Mrs. Bennett Wyse been allowed into her con- 
fidence that lady would have said that the reason for her 
complacency was to be found in the circumstance that, as 
her engagement to Alfred had not been spread abroad, she 
would not hear the whisperings of the girls around her 
suggesting that she had lacked the cleverness to keep her 
lover beside her for longer than a day or two. 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse had a pretty fair knowledge of 
young women and their ways — young women who had 
engaged themselves to marry certain young men — young 
women to whom British juries would award considerable 
sums of money if those certain young men proved uncer- 
tain, and declined to carry out their share of the contract. 
She had also quite as extensive a knowledge of young 
women who had not been so fortunate as to obtain the 
promise of the young men, the full panel of British jury- 
men waiting eagerly, like the fielding eleven at a cricket 
match, to pounce upon them if they endeavoured to evade 
the responsibility of having made such a promise. 

On the twenty-fifth of October Philippa returned with 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse and her husband to Battenberg Gar- 
dens. She found awaiting her there a note full of rapture 
and misplaced vowels from Teddy Haven. He declared 
that she would never be sorry for the promise she had 
made to him. She had made his life glorious to him. It 
had been a poor sort of life apart from her ; but now he 
felt that there was nothing that he could not accomplish if 
he only lived long enough ; and it would be something of 
a sell for the patent-leather peer and all the rest of the 
crew who fancied that he was a boy and treated him as 
such, though Mrs. Bennett Wyse, he said, knew better. 
“ Nice fresh boy ! ” the patent-leather peer had called him, 
“ Dam his impudence ! ” He would show him who the 
nice fresh boy was if he chanced to meet him. 

“ 0 Phil, Phil, Phil ! ” he continued, “ I knew that love 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


3U1 


like mine would be rewarded at last. Things may be bad, 
and all that. Everything may be gone woefully astray ; 
but they are not so utterly astray as people make out, for 
true love still meets with its reward. But there— our love 
is not like the ordinary every-day sort of love that poets 
rhyme about. I bought a book of poetry — the first I ever 
bought — but the way the fellow writes about love makes 
me mad. I was so disgusted that I actually sat down 
and wrote something in the line that any poet who 
knew his business should adopt. I enclose my little 
poem. 

‘‘ Any girl might read it — I can say that for it. 

“I will be with you on the evening of the 25th. Get 
the B. W.s out of the way. 

“ A million kisses.” 

She read this graceful little note through. Then she 
picked up the little poem. Reading that through was 
quite another thing. When he said that any girl might 
read it, he had written with a good share of the vanity of 
an author dealing with one of his works that has cost him 
many a sleepless hour. It is generally understood that 
au'hors, like mothers, are fondest of those children of their 
brain that have cost them most sleepless hours. It is also 
a fact that, like the flesh and blood children, such offspring 
are usually the weakest of the family. 

She read the first six lines, and felt that to get on so 
far was a sufficient proof that her regard for the author 
was sincere. 

It appeared that he had asked the sea what love might 
be ; but the sea’s reply was so unsatisfactory that he had 
been compelled to put the same inquiry to the moon, and 
he did so in the month of June ; the moon shirked the re- 
sponsibility of an answer off-hand, and referred him to 
the gentle star that shone afar ; but the star made “time” 
rhyme with “shine,” and said “are” when it should have 
said “is.” 

Phil put the poem in her pocket. 

Poor Teddy required to take out a seven days’ licence 
as a poet. 


302 


ONP] P"AIR DAUGHTER. 


She made up her mind that he should never attempt 
anything like that when they were married. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bennett Wyse were dining at the house 
of an eminent financier who wanted to have a good after- 
dinner talk with Mr. Bennett Wyse on the subject of 
floating a new enterprise that promised a handsome re- 
turn— to the floaters. The company was to be started for 
the recovery of the diamonds which Queen Guinevere had 
flung into the river upon the occasion of her misunder- 
standing with Sir Launcelot of the Lake, circumstantially 
recorded by an eminent writer, of whose bona fides (vide 
the prospectus) it is unnecessary to speak. The weight of 
each diamond was estimated — for the benefit of the pos- 
sible shareholders — in carats down to three places of deci- 
mals. (One cannot be too exact in figures that figure in a 
l)rospectus.) Then the cost of purchasing certain riparian 
rights was calculated with great care, and a liberal esti- 
mate was suggested to cover the cost of dredging opera- 
tions on the most approved principles. On the other 
hand, the prospectus contained a letter which the pro- 
moters had received from an eminent engineer, showing 
how the betterment — that was the exact word, and it was 
considered a very h&ppy one — of the property of the ri- 
parian occupiers by the process of dredging the river 
would be so great that, even making a liberal allowance 
for the cost of litigation, the company would, it was ex- 
pected, be entitled to a sum which would more than cover 
all the incidental expenses connected with the under- 
taking. 

It was with a view of chatting over some clauses in the 
draft prospectus that Mr. Bennett Wyse, accompanied by 
his wife, went to dine at the house of the financier to 
whose genius the enterprise owed its origin. 

Philippa remained at home. 

“You expect some one to call ? ’’ said the Queen Poppy 
to her in the evening. 

“Yes,” said Philippa ; “I expect that— that— some one 
will call.” 

“ Fortunate English maidens,” cried Mrs. Bennett 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


303 


Wyse, “to be able to receive a lov^er alone ! In France 
such a thing would be impossible.” 

“ Poor France ! ” said Philippa. 

When she was left alone her reflections were not alto- 
gether directed upon the blessings of freedom v/hich the 
English girl has achieved for herself, and which she is 
every day endeavouring — and not without success — to en- 
large. She had ample time to reflect upon the past, and 
to think what the future would bring to her. What had 
she gained by her contact with the world of restless wom- 
en ? Of what advantage to her was the notoriety which 
she had achieved as one of the leaders of the restlessness 
of the women ? She had worn the best dresses of any 
woman in London. She had had her portrait reproduced 
in illustrated papers by processes of such extraordinary 
and unusual skill that strangers had actually recognized 
her when she was driving in the Park and elsewhere. 
Seven months before she would not have ventured to con- 
sider such social success possible for her to obtain. But 
still she had obtained it ; and yet she was waiting for 
Teddy Haven to come to marry her ; while Teddy Haven 
had only been too eager to get her consent to marry him 
more than a year ago ; so that she really had not made 
an appreciable advance upon her prospects when at Bay- 
mouth — the town which she had held in such contempt. 

Her reflections led her perilously near to a point where 
the Moral appears in black letters on a luminous back- 
ground in one’s thoughts — a.ssuming that her reflections 
were susceptible of illustration on the dissolving view 
principle. 

The entrance of Teddy Haven — she had given instruc- 
tions to her maid after the departure of Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse, regarding the admission of Mr. Haven or anyone 
else who might ask for her — prevented the actual appear- 
ance of the moral on that luminous disc ; but she could 
hear the clink of the slide, so to speak, that the limelight 
operator was pushing into its place, with Moixd painted 
on it. 

Well, this was something at any rate — this rapture of 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


3;U 

clasping and kissing to the smothering point. There was 
no doubting the ardour of Teddy’s affection. She was in 
a position to make comparisons as to degree ; and she 
could not but allow that, so far as ardour went. Teddy sur- 
passed her experiences. His was a record performance, as 
he himself would probably have phrased it, if he had had 
reason to refer to it, only it so happened that he knew 
nothing about her previous experiences. 

She felt like rising to the surface of a deep sea when 
he released her at last. 

He, too, was gasping. 

‘‘ My love— my darling — my Phil ! ’’—these were gasps 
— “ my darling— at last— at last ! ” 

“ No,” she said. “ Keep away, I will not suffer another 
such onslaught. You have no consideration. You are as 
rough as a young bear.” 

Then she let her head lie back on her chair, and 
laughed through the flaming of her face. He lay back 
and laughed also. 

“ And you were in love with me all the time,” he said 
through his laughter. ‘‘You were in love with me and 
didn’t know it. I knew it, though. I knew that you 
couldn’t bring yourself to have anything to say to those 
chaps that were hanging around you. Now confess that 
you never really loved any chap as you do me. Let me 
hear your confession.” 

The word “ confession ” sounded as sinister to her ears 
as it does to the ears of the Evangelical Churchman. 

Oh, don’t talk about confessions,” she cried. “ I hate 
the word. Never mind, Teddy. I’m not afraid to say 
that I care about no one just as I care about you — no, no, 

I will not have you near me again— at least, not just yet. 
Oh, Teddy, dear, one must have breathing space.” 

“ All right,” he said, resuming the seat off which he 
had jumped in her direction before she had quite spoken. 

“ All right. I’ll be as tame as— well, as one of your patent- 
leather friends— only — for God’s sake, don’t hold your 
head back like that. Give a poor beggar a chance, Phil ; 
I’m only a man after all.” 


THE WOMxVN ACTS. 


805 


Again she laughed and moved her head so that all that 
golden spoil of beautiful hair coiled above her milk-white 
neck was before his face. 

Why should the eyes of so true a lover see before him 
the subtle coils of some strange fascinating snake ready to 
spring ? 

“For God’s sake,” he cried in quite a different tone 
froDa his former imploration. “ For God’s sake don’t sit 
that way ; I can only see the hack of your head and your 
hair. I wish you’d let me loose it : I don’t like those 
coils.” 

She had turned her head in an instant. 

“ Don’t be a fool,” she said. “ Come, I will be good to 
you ; you may sit at my feet. ” 

She was good to him. He was sprawling at her feet in 
a moment, leaning his arms over her knees — once his 
face got high enough to enable him to plant a red kiss 
upon her bosom — there it lay — a rosy blossom on a slope 
of snow. 

Then she gave him her hand to play with. He put his 
cheek against it. He was amazed — rejoiced — to find that 
it was warm — not quite so warm as his cheek, but still 
warm. 

He felt like Pygmalion at the supreme moment. 

“ My love — my love — you do love me — I know it now. 
Why shouldn’t we get married to-morrow ? ” he said in a 
whisper — his voice was thick — almost hoarse. 

“Soon — soon,” she said. “Not just to-morrow, but 
soon. I want to get away from here. I think I’m tired 
of my life here.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it ! What a crowd of painted 
women ! Why can’t they take lessons from an artist — 
say, your friend Bentham, in the art of making up their 
faces ? It’s an insult to a cnap s intelligence for them 
to appear daubed over the way they are, asking men to 
believe that those are fast colours— -by George, though, 
they are fast colours — the colours of the fast — you under- 
stand ? ” 

“You have your eyes about you, Teddy.” 


300 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ Oh, trust me ! I know that nature doesn’t make 
mauve complexions as a rule. But I’ve had no eyes for 
any face but yours, my Phil. I tried to describe it in my 
poem, hut I couldn’t do it justice. Poetry is a poor thing 
at best. But when we’re married I think I’ll have another 
shy at it.” 

He seemed to think that poetry as a medium of im- 
aginative expression was on an artistic level with Aunt 
Sally. 

‘‘I think, my dear Teddy,” said she, “ that the poet had 
you in his mind when he said that about unheard melo- 
dies being sweeter than those that are heard. I am sure 
that you would do better to allow yours to remain un- 
heard.” 

“ I’ll leave it to you,” he said. “ If you say I’m to 
write poetry I’ll become a poet for your sake ; if you say 
that I’m not, why I’ll stick to prose. We’ll talk over all 
that again, when you are my true, true wife. That’s what 
I like about you — you’ve been so true — so true — so true 
all these long weary years — you were true because ” 

But at this point Teddy jumped up ; for the shuffling 
of feet was heard outside the door as if two or three people 
were about to enter the room. 

The footman opened the door, and some one did enter 
the room. 

It was Philippa’s father who entered ; and in another 
moment he was followed by a middle-aged lady inclined 
to be stout, and to overdress that stoutness. 

She said as the footman closed the door : 

“ Oh, my ! what a fine parlour ! ” 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


307 


CHAPTER XIII. 

CLEARS UP A GOOD DEAL THAT SEEMED MYSTERIOUS. 

Philippa had started up, but without a cry. She stood 
pale, and with her lips set as her father advanced towards 
her. Teddy had fallen back into his chair and was staring 
at the man as though he were a spectre. When one has 
believed a man to be dead and buried, and when that man 
suddenly appears in a room lighted by electricity, one is 
apt to stare. 

‘‘ Philippa, my dear child, I have returned to you — I 
have returned to my one ewe lamb. Come to mine arms, 
my child— my lamb ; though these are the tents of Shem, 
my lamb is still unharmed, blessed be the name of the 
Lord ! ” 

He had come beside her and had put out his hand to 
her after raising both in the i)antomime of giving her his 
blessing — the blessing of the good father. 

What could she do ? What could she say ? She had 
told her maid that any one who came to see her should be 
admitted. Well, Teddy had been admitted first, and now 
here was her father blessing her, and waiting to kiss her-. 
What could she do except allow him to kiss her fore- 
head t 

“ And I have not returned alone to you, my child,” 
continued the parent with a smirk— the leer of the godly 
man who confesses to a weakness of the flesh. “ I have 
been greatly blessed in a helpmeet. Philippa— this is your 
new mother, my child — alas ! you did not know for long 
what it was to have a mother’s love.” 

“ She’ll know now,” said the overdressed lady in a very 
pungent American accent — how her diamond ear-rings 
flashed under the electric liglit ! “ I take you into my 

arms, my dear. You are like your paw-pa, and I’ll love 
you for his sake, I opine.” 

Philippa had not yet recovered from her bewilderment. 
But she was not taken literally into the arms of the lady 


808 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


with the diamonds — every second revealed more diamonds 
— a great marquise ring blazed over the glove on one hand, 
another flash came from a brooch that she wore over a jet- 
beaded jacket. The woman suggested a capacious thunder- 
cloud, from various parts of which came sudden flashes of 
lightning. Philippa gave her her hand as she would have 
given it to the handle of an electric machine. 

“Your paw-pa married me in the States in June,” re- 
sumed the lady. “ You’ve heard of Zebadiah Q. Slinker, 
the dry goods king, I dare saj^ Wal, I’m Zebadiah Q. 
Slinker.” 

“Was, my dear — was,” remarked Mr. Liscomb, in a 
mildly deprecating tone. 

“In one sense, was, Mr. Liscomb,” said she. “As a 
private individual I was the widow of Zebadiah Q. Slinker ; 
but in the eyes of the public, I’m the store— Zebadiah Q. 
Slinker is painted up on the sign, and that’s me. xAnd who 
is this gentleman ? ” indicating Teddy. “ Not a beau ? Oh, 
fie ! naughty girl ! ” 

“ If it isn’t Teddy Haven ! ” cried Mr. Liscomb. “ How 
are you, my lad ? You have grown since I saw you last at 
Bay mouth — have you grown in grace, Edward ? That’s 
the question we must all ask ourselves. Study the Epistle 
to the Philippians, my lad.” 

“I thought — I heard - that you were dead, Mr. Lis- 
comb,” said Teddy, still staring. 

“ In a sense,” said Mr. Liscomb uneasily. “ Oh, yes, 
Edward, my boy ; we are all spiritually dead until there 
comes a great moving among the drj^ bones. We do not 
intend to take you away from this house to-night, my 
child, though from all I can hear it is not a house wdiere 
one’s spiritual life is likely to deepen. We read a good 
deal about you and Mrs. Bennett Wyse and that form of 
idolatry which she has been trying to substitute for the 
true religion— for Methodism. From all that I can hear 
this Introspection falls little short of idolatry-. I will take 
you away from this house to-morrow. We are rich in 
w'orldly goods now, my child. The Lord has blest me 
with a helpmeet whose worldly possessions are more than 


THE \VO]\[AN ACTS. 


309 

considerable, and whose spiritual are, if it were possible, of 
even greater extent.” 

Philippa had now recovered from the effects of her sur- 
prise. She glanced at the flashing lady who, she was in- 
formed, was her stepmother. The lady was smiling with 
some measure of blandness as her husband spoke, and she 
simpered when the reference was made to her double pos- 
sessions. Then Philippa glanced at her father. 

“ I will speak with you alone, father,” said she, leading 
the way to the sliding doors that divided when closed two 
of the smaller drawing-rooms. 

“ What have you got to say, my child ? ” asked the fa- 
ther. “ I have no secrets from my wife — the Lord forbid 
that I should. Cannot you say here anything you have 
to say ? ” 

“ No,” she said ; “ I must speak with you alone, or you 
shall leave this house without hearing what I have to 
say.” 

She had moved one door into its groove, and had 
pressed the button that turned on the light in the Vene- 
tian chandelier. 

“ Well, if it is necessary — but I really don’t see that it 
is,” said her father, taking a step towards the door at which 
she was standing. Then he turned to his wife, saying, 
“Only for a moment, my dear,— only for a moment, my 
Cora.” 

“ Oh, by all means, Mr. Liscomb,” said the lady. “ I 
guess I can have a good time with this young beau.” She 
raised an elbow in the direction of the mute and bewildered 
Teddy. “ I always did freeze to the dudes,” she added with 
a little smile, that was meant to put Teddy at his ease, but 
that failed to accomplish this end. 

“We shall not be long, my Cora,” were the last words 
of Mr. Liscomb before going through the half door into the 
room beyond, where Philippa was awaiting him. 

She pointed to the door and gave him a sign to close it. 

“ Eh, what ? Is it necessary, do you think ? You can 
have nothing so particular ” 

She repeated the sign with some impatience. He said. 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


a 10 


Oh, well,” and slid the door close to the other. ‘'A capi- 
tal arrangement,” he said. “ It runs quite easily.” Then 
he examined with some measure of attention an ormolu 
girandole of thirty lights. He seemed to be a connoisseur 
of ormolu of the Empire. At any rate he was in no hurry 
to face his daughter. “ These people must have a great 
deal of money,” he said at length. “ I read in a paper at 
Liverpool that Mr. and Mrs. Bennett Wyse and Miss Lis- 
cornb were among the passengers from Madeira in the mail 

steamer, and so I had no trouble ” 

“You said something just now about taking me away 
from this house,” Philippa began, so soon as he had turned 
his eyes from the mirror. “ I wash to tell you that I do 
not intend either to leave this house until I please, or to 
have you and — that — that woman coming again to this 
house.” 

“ Is this the way you address your father— your father 
who has come across the Atlantic— braved the perils of 
such as go down to the sea in ships to see you ? Philipim, 
it is clear to me that your sojourn in this house has been 
unprofitable to your soul, or you wouldn’t address me as 
you have done. My wife is most anxious to become ac- 
quainted with Mrs. Bennett Wyse.” 

“ You and she will leave this house immediately and 
not return to it,” said Philippa. 

“ If we go we take you with us. I am your father; I 
might forego the point of your coming away to-morrow, to 
enable you to introduce your stepmother to society in Lon- 
don — I gave her to understand that there’d be no trouble, 

with you by her side, and Mrs. Bennett Wyse ’’ 

“ You may now give her to understand that she must 
look elsewhere for such an introduction,” said Philippa. 
“You cut yourself off from me some months ago; you 
agreed to accept the fraud which I carried out to secure 
your safety; you went away, not caring what might be- 
come of me; you deserted me at that time; you left me to 
face the people whom you had defrauded ; you agreed that 
I was to pretend that you were dead. I did pretend it.” 

“ Heavens ! ” cried the man, raising his hands in poorly 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


311 


simulated horror. “ You do not mean to tell me that you 
allowed that old man to he buried under my name ? ” 

‘‘ You know that you agreed with me that I should do 
so if possible,” said she. “ The trick was mine. I was a 
fool — oh, a fool beyond all naming of fools in the world — 
to burden my life with a fraud for your sake. But I am 
no longer a fool — I now see the cowardice— the baseness 
of your desertion of me. My turn has come now, and I 
know it.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean that you deserted me once, now I desert you.” 

“You are my daughter — a poor misguided girl, but 
still my daughter. I must have you in my house again. 
Yes, the strayed lamb shall find the welcoiue shelter of 
the fold again. I would not be doing my duty as a Be- 
liever if I allowed you to remain here any longer.” 

“ You will be arrested to-morrow, if I give information 
to the police.” 

He laughed. 

“ My dear child, be not deluded. Mr. Thompson and I 
settled that little matter by cable more than a month ago. 
He made you one payment ; he will not make you an- 
other. I’m afraid, Philippa, that you have been foolish 
enough to extort money from Mr. Thompson under false 
pretences. Oh yes ; you’ll come with us to-morrow, or 
else stop and introduce your mother to the best London 
society, beginning with Mrs. Bennett Wyse. Cora would 
also like to meet the Prince. I’m convinced that your 
tact can manage even that. Like so many other Ameri- 
can ladies, though presumably a citizen of the great Re- 
public, she yearns after Monarchical Government and the 
House of Lords.” 

“ You will take her away now, and never bring her 
face to face with me again. I have the power to make 
you do it.” 

“ What power have you ? ” 

“ I will put into her hands one of the last notes that 
you received from Mary Ann Pollock.” 

Mr. Liscomb started. 


312 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


“ Has she been asking you for money ? ” he inquired. 

No ; I suppose she takes it for granted that you are 
dead. You destroyed all the papers in your desk except 
that letter which I still have in a safe place. It leaves 
nothing of the scandal to the imagination. It even refers 
to the state of health of the boy. Does your wife know 
that you have got a son— perhaps two or three— on this 
side of the water ? Do you want her to know all about 
that scandal ? ” 

There was a pause before Mr. Liscomb said gently, 

“ I don't think it would be wise to let her know any- 
thing of that nature just at present. You see, she has a 
great deal of money coming out of the store— quite a large 
concern, my dear— half a block — and she’s not so liberal 
with it as I could desire. But you’ll gratify her foolish 
little whim, will you not ? They’re ail so fond of the 
Prince on the other side. All staunch Republicans are. 
Ah, they bring us Britishers and our notions of loyalty to 
the blush. It’s not true that Mrs. Bennett Wyse put a 
piece of ice down his back at supper ? ” 

“ You are to take her away at once, and never return 
with her. You understand that ? The day you bring her 
face to face with me I shall put into her hand that letter 
to which I allude.” 

‘‘ Have you lost all sense of duty, Philippa ? ” 

She had gone to the door and was in act of sliding it 
back. 

“ You agree ? ” she said. 

“ One moment. If you will not gratify the loyal affec- 
tions — if the Prince ” Philippa slid back the door. 

He jumped with surprising nimbleness behind the 
porliere and caught her arm. “ Aeon'll at least shake 
hands with her when she goes ? '’ he w^hispered implor- 
ingly. 

Philippa passed into the other drawing-room, and her 
father followed her. 

“ They called him the Dry Goods King, and with good 
reason too, sir. Zebadiah Q. Slinker was an emperor in 
his own line. He was born in the purple, too ; for his 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


313 


father was the first to import velveteen into the New Eng- 
land States.” 

Mrs. Liscomb was apparently giving Teddy a brief 
sketch of the dynasty to which the late Dry Goods King 
belonged. 

“ My dear Cora,” said her husband, entering, “ Philippa 
has just imparted to me some information that makes it 
necessary that we should go away before Mr. and Mrs. 
Bennett Wyse return — they have suffered a great bereave- 
ment, my dear — ah, my heart bleeds for them ; but what 
is the sympathy of a poor, weak, human being ? — you share 
my reluctance, I’m sure, to obtrude upon them in their 
hour of sorrow. We must go now; I left my hat down- 
stairs.” 

“Oh, my!” exclaimed the lady. “Shall we not have 
the pleasure of being introduced to the lady of the house ? 
What did we cross the Atlantic for anyway, Mr. Lis- 
comb ? ” 

“ It’s impossible to-night — my daughter has made that 
plain to me,” said Mr. Liscomb. “ Ah, it is very sad — the 
second cousin, I think you said, my dear ? Ah, a second 
cousin snatched away without a moment’s warning ! Ter- 
rible, terrible 1 But it is the Hand. Tell her with our re- 
spectful sympathy— the sympathy of Professing Christians 
— not to forget that it is the Hand. Good-bye, my child. 
Say good-bye, Cora.” 

“I didn’t know that you were so punctilious on this 
side,” said Mrs. Liscomb. “ A second cousin ain’t of much 
account with us. But you can say to the lady that it’s only 
a pleasure postponed. We won’t pull our freight till we’ve 
met her. We’ve heard so much about her — not forgetting 
that episode with the Prince. Was it a big piece of ice ? 
What a jest ! Though I must say it ain’t the sort of judy 
spree that I’d desiderate for myself. Opinion is divided 
on our side as to the size of the piece of ice. Some folks 
say it was no bigger than a pea nut ; others that it was a 
chunk.” 

“ My Cora ! ” cried Mr. Liscomb. 

“ I mean no offence to the lady of the house,” said Mrs. 


3U 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


Liscomb. Who knows ? Perhaps after a year or two in 
your British society I ma}" see my way to slide a chunk of 
ice down the Prince’s back myself.” 

“Till then good-bye — say good-bye, my Cora.” 

Philippa allowed her hand to be touched, first by her 
father, then by her father’s wife— the lady shaking down 
an unsuspected diamond bangle in the operation. 

Philippa never spoke ; she pressed the ivory of the bell, 
and the servant appeared at the door as Mr. and Mrs. Lis- 
comb passed out. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CONTRASTS THE UNGRACIOUS EXIT OF ONE LOVER WITH THE 
OPPORTUNE ENTRANCE OF ANOTHER. 

Teddy had risen, and now when Philippa seated her- 
self he remained standing. 

She did not make any appeal to him for sympathy. 
She might have put her hands over her face, or have 
given a sob. She did neither. She sat there, pale and 
with compressed lips, with her eyes fixed upon the fire. 

The long silence became painful. 

It was broken by Teddy. 

“ I thought that he — your father — Oh, my God — what 
has happened — what has happened ? All the light has 
gone out of the world — nothing is left but darkness.” 

He dropped upon a sofa, and buried his face upon a 
cushion, shaken with sobs. 

She never stirred. She continued staring into the fire. 

The Louis Seize clock — an ormolu Cupid was shown 
mocking at Time fallen asleep with his hour-glass lying 
flat, and his scythe-blade broken — chimed the half hour 
past nine. 

The hand had moved on another five minutes before 
Teddy suddenly hurled the cushion to the other end of 
the sofa and got upon his feet. 

She never so much as glanced at him. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


315 


“ Why don’t you speak ? Why don’t you look at me ? ” 
he cried piteously. “ My God, Philippa, have you no word 
to say to me ? Do you not care if I go mad — if I die through 
the horror of what I have seen ? ” 

She never so much as glanced at him. 

“ Is it nothing to you that all the happiness of my life 
is wrecked in a moment ? ” he continued. “ Is it nothing 
to you that the faith which I had in God— in truth — in 
love — in you— in you — in you — is flung to the winds ? Oh, 
my God ! she is not a woman — she is not a woman ! ” 

“ Ah,” she said, “ I am too much of a woman. That is 
my curse. I see it now, for the first time, when it is too 
late.” 

“ Too much a woman — too much a woman ? What does 
that mean ? ” he cried. 

“ It means that loving only one man I can stand by 
and see my life ruined for that love, rather than say a 
word that would save myself. Once before I might have 
saved myself if I had found speech to utter a word. I 
could not do it. And now — I cannot ask you to come 
back to me, Teddy.” 

“ How could I ever come back ?” he said. “ For years 
I looked upon you as truth itsel f. How could I ever come 
back to you, remembering how I found you in black, 
weeping your tears for the loss of your father in that inn 
— your father who walked into this room a few minutes 
ago ? You practised a cheat, a cheat, you ! and I would 
have laid down my life in my belief of your truth. I be- 
lieved in you more than I believed in heaven ; and now 
I feel — Ah, my God, I feel that heaven has been suddenly 
snatched from me and hell thrown open to me in its place. 
Phil — Phil — you have ruined my life — it is not much, but 
it is ruined ! ” 

“ No, no,” said she gently. “ You have been saved 
from me— think of that— you have been saved from marry- 
ing a woman who did not love you — who loved another 
man — who could never love any man save that one only.” 

He actually staggered back a few steps. 

“ You would have done this ? You would have mar- 
1 


316 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


ried me while — but you kissed me — you allowed me to kiss 
you.” 

“ Oh, do not stay here any longer,” she cried, leaping 
to her feet. “ Why should you stay to make me feel my 
degradation more bitterly than I do now ? Go away — go 
away, and thank God that you have been saved from me 
—saved as by fire.” 

“ As by fire — that is the truth,” said he. “ But the fire 
is the fire of hell. What is left for me now — what is left 
for me, Phil ? ” 

“ Everything,” she said. “ Nothing is gone from you 
except a dream.” 

He made a motion with his hands, as though she had 
said, 

“ Nothing is lost except honour.” 

“ Except a dream — except a dream,” he cried. 

“You are better than most men,” she said, “and yet 
your one question is what is to become of you — what is 
there left for you ? No thought has crossed your mind as 
to what is to become of me — wdiat is there left for me ? 
You are a man. Go away.” 

“ I will,” he said. “ Oh, I thought we were to be so 
happy together. But you are right— I am saved— I am 
saved !” 

He flung open the door and went out, without saying 
good-bye even once. 

It was a most ungraceful exit. 

He had shown himself in more ways than one to have 
suddenly developed the qualities of a man— she had been 
quite surprised at the fluency with which he had expressed 
himself ; and now there was something of a man’s chuckle 
in his way of saying, “ I am saved— I am saved ! ” 

She did not look towards him as he went out ; but that 
man’s chuckle that came from him caused the blood to 
surge to her face, and some very bitter thoughts to rise in 
her heart. 

The scene through which she had passed had not dif- 
fered greatly from that in which she had parted from Al- 
fred Bentham ; and yet no bitter thoughts had risen when 


THE WOMAN ACTS. S17 

her eyes turned away from looking at the Convent of 
Saint Mary of the Mount. 

“ What is left for me in this world ? ’’ 

That was the question which was framed by all her 
bitterness of thought — her bitterness of heart. 

She had not found an answer to that question when 
the door was thrown open and the footman announced 
Lord Sandyclitfe. 

(Was all the world going to call to-night because she 
had given orders to admit any one who might call, not 
wishing to suggest even to her maid the likelihood that 
Teddy would be a visitor.) 

“ A thousand pardons,” said Lord SandyclifiFe, ‘‘ for a 
call at this ridiculous hour — bless my soul, that clock can’t 
be right — ten minutes to ten ! ” 

“ It can’t be much earlier,” said she. “ Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse is dining out. Will you wait for her ? ” 

“ No,” he said. “ No, I hoped that she would be out.” 

“ Oh, Lord Sandyclitfe ! ” 

“ It’s the truth, that’s why it sounds so brutal,” said 
Lord Sandy cliff e. “ Yes, I hoped that I should have the 
good fortune to find that she was out and that you were 
within. I want to have a chat with you. What did you 
mean by writing to me that letter declining the honour — 
that was the word you made use of — I roared over it — sug- 
gested by my proposal ? ” 

“ Is there any use going into a question of the appro- 
priateness of certain words now. Lord Sandycliffe ? ” she 
asked. 

“ There’s every use. Do you really fancy that a man 
such as I am can be made to put aside the fixed object of 
his life by a word or two ? You don’t think that I am in 
earnest — you think me a wicked man, but not wicked 
enough to arouse your interest. As a matter of fact, I am 
not particularly wicked. I’m weak enough to confess it, 
though I know I run the chance of bringing myself down 
to the level of uninteresting men by the confession. I 
want you to marry me.” 

“ Listen to me for a moment, and then tell me that,” 


318 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


said she. “ I am in this house under false pretences. I 
entered it originally by means of a fraud. I pretended 
that my father had just died. That was a lie. I thought 
that my father had committed a crime. I wanted to bring 
about his escape. I planned so that he escaped by a ship 
to America and I remained by the bedside of a dying man 
who I pretended was my father. But my father returned 
from America to-day — he was in this room half an hour 
ago. Now tell me that you want to marry me.” 

Lord Sandycliffe looked at her for a moment. Her 
face was pale ; and though her lips were firmly set, her 
eyes were moist. 

The shame of the confession might be washed out in 
tears. 

Lord Sandycliffe leaned back in his chair and laughed 
— he laughed— then he roared. 

“ You are an honest girl,” said he at length, “and you 
are the only woman I ever met whom I wished to marry. 
Do you call it a fraud to try and bring about the escape of 
your father ? I call it the act of a heroine ; and by the 
Lord I’ll marry you, or I’ll never marry woman.” 

“And I give you my promise to marry you,” she said. 

“ To-morrow ? ” 

“ This day month. It would be a scandal any sooner. 
Now go away and make no attempt to see me until I give 
you notice.” 

“ I will make no attempt. Your suggestion is a wise 
one, as usual. We’ll keep the whole business dark — peo- 
ple may chatter till they’re black as chattering choughs, 
after we’re married. They won’t have a chance sooner. 
How about that father of yours ? ” 

“ He will not trouble us : I made that certain.” 

“ Then there is nothing more to be said.” 

“ Nothing. I will marry you in a month, I give you 
my word. ” 

“ Then I am as certain of you as if we were already 
married. You’re not likely to set about organising teetotal 
bazaars.” 

“I don’t think that my bent lies in that direction.” 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


319 


“Then weTl live happy together. Good-night, my 
dear.” 

“Good-night.” 

She gave him her hand. She had her fears about that 
kiss. They were well founded. 

He did not kiss her, however. He saw her fears in her 
eyes, when he looked into them, as he did on taking her 
hand. Instead of kissing her, he caught a little wisp of 
her hair (like an illuminated illustration of a comet theory) 
that had strayed in front of one of her ears, and tucked it 
in behind that ear. 

That was the one act of familiarity in which he indulged 
to place him on the same level with her as if he had given 
her the kiss. He was satisfied, and she was more than sat- 
isfied. 

His visit did not occupy longer than ten minutes. 

When he had gone she drew closer to the fire ; and 
looking into its cavernous depths as into a seething vol- 
cano, for she had stirred up the neglected coals, she felt 
that she had just passed through the most wonderful even- 
ing that she had ever known. 


CHAPTER XV. 

REPEATS THE ACCOUNT THAT A LADY GIVES OF A MENAGE 
OF TWO CANDLESTICKS. 

“Wake up— wake up thoroughly for a first class bit of 
gossip, my dear Phil,” cried the Queen Poppy ; and in a 
moment Phil was wide awake. 

“ I’m always ready for a bit of gossip when it comes 
from you, my Queen,” she cried. “ The commonest gudgeon 
of gossip acquires all the flavour of whitebait served up by 
you.” 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse gave a rippling laugh that harmo- 
nised to perfection with the delicate little frou-frou of her 
dinner dress, when the sable-lined wrap was flung over 


320 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


the end of the sofa and the wearer threw herself back 
upon it with her hands clasped behind her shapely head. 

‘‘This particular fish was born whitebait — it needs no 
sauce ; and oh, it is so crisp,” laughed the lady. “ Georgium 
Sidus served it up with sauce piquante — an artistic mistake, 
that is the constant error of the French kitchen.” 

“ Oh, Sir George never lets one have a morsel au natu- 
rel, however choice it may be,” said Phil. 

“The mistake of the over-educated raconteur^'''' said 
Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “But to the story. You may have 
recollected my suggesting to you the day — thank heaven, 
the first and only day — that Alice Heathfield came to this 
house, that she was that worst of all prigs— a girl prig ? ” 

“ I remember perfectly well — what of her ? ” said Phi- 
lippa. 

“She married Maurice Wentworth — you may also rec- 
ollect.” 

The little exclamation of assent that came from Philip- 
pa sounded like a moan of pain. So it was. 

“Well, it seems that when they had driven to the rail- 
way terminus, starting on their honeymoon tour, the hus- 
band of an hour left the wife of an hour on the platform 
while he went to ask what bungling had occurred that 
prevented the compartment which had been engaged for 
them being so labelled ; and the moment that he left her 
side a woman came up — a young and I suppose a once 
attractive Italian woman — and addressed her, first in the 
Italian tongue which she did not understand, and then in 
the French which she did. Her communication was to 
the effect that she, the stranger, had at one time been the 
closest of friends and so forth with the newly-married 
husband, but he had discarded her after his trip to India. 
The husband came up before the explanation was quite 
over; but as the train was about to start there was no time 
left for any more. Of course. Sir George gives more than 
these bare outlines — he gives the exact words — the usual 
operatic trio : soprano, contralto— the discarded one is al- 
ways the contralto — and the wicked tenor.” 

“ What did that incident matter ? Love asks no ques- 



Philippa was white. Her breath came in quick sobs, P. 321. 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


321 


tions ? ” said Philippa. She prayed that Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse would not notice how she was trembling. 

“True; love asks no questions; but Alice Wentworth 
nee Heathfield does — she did, when her husband had 
bundled her into a compartment and shut the door in the 
face of the — the contralto. She asked her husband a few 
questions — oh, she told the whole story to Sir George — he 
is her oldest friend. ‘ Deny it ! ’ she said to her husband, 

‘ Deny it ! ’ she cried again. You know the style of the 
libretto of such a work. ‘Deny it !’ and the first violins 
are greatly agitated. ‘ Deny it ! ” and the second violins 
take up the theme, the cellos wail, and a moan comes from 
the double bass— the moralist of the orchestra.” 

“ He did not deny it ! ” Philippa was breathless. She 
had stretched her head eagerly towards Mrs. Bennett Wyse 
as the story proceeded. She was now only sitting on the 
edge of her chair. 

“ He denied nothing. He declined to discuss his past 
life or any incident in it with her. And then — what do 
you think happened then, my Philippa ? ” 

“ What — what — sbe did not leave him ? ” 

“ What idiots women are when they are girls ! That 
little fool, it appears, has grappled to her soul the theories 
of the equality of a man’s life and a woman’s life, which 
it seems some women pretend they hold now-a-days ; the 
theories have been embodied in countless books— mostly 
deadly dull, and hence convincing to the graduating prig. 
She fancied that we — we— the social wing of the Intro- 
spectors— put forward such a theory, and lived up to it.” 

“And then ? ” 

“ And then ? — how am I to put it ? ah, I have it. Yes, 
then there are two candlesticks instead of one during that 
honeymoon tour, and that system has prevailed ever 
since.” 

Mrs. Bennett Wyse lay back among her sables and 
laughed for several minutes. 

(It will be remembered that she had not received an 
invitation to the wedding.) 

Philippa was white. Her breath came in quick sobs ; 


322 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


they were all of joy, a terrible joy, the presence of which 
she could not understand. At last a strange long breath 
came to her, and then she too threw herself back and 
laughed ; but hers was not the smooth laughter of rustling 
silk. 

“ Lady Annadale wrote to me at Madeira, you recollect, 
that the bride and bridegroom were not looking their 
best,” said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. ‘‘ Married life didn’t seem 
to agree with them. Lady Annadale thought. The inno- 
cent woman ! Married life ! The menage of the two can- 
dlesticks.” 

Again Mrs. Bennett Wyse was convulsed. 

Philippa’s laughter had ceased. She was gazing into 
the fire. 

“ Does the little idiot fancy that that sort of thing can 
have any ending save one?” resumed the Queen Poppy. 
“ Of what good to such girls is their reading of the history 
of the Man and the Woman from the earliest days of the 
world ? No, no ; I quite agree with those who say that 
the man must not pluck promiscuously and eat of the fruit 
of the tree— of that tree. No, not pluck ; but there are 
windfalls, and the man who picks up an apple here and 
there in the orchards, before he can afford the luxury of a 
fruit tree of his own to cherish, is not to be cast out of the 
Paradise for evermore. ” 

“ The Paradise ? ” said Philippa, still looking into the 
fire. 

“ The Paradise of wedded love, my dear young maiden,” 
said Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “Oh, it is women such as this 
particular specimen, that insist on a man’s adding to a 
blemished past a blemished future. That is what is inevi- 
table when a woman tries to show a man in the way we 
are talking about, how greatly she abhors his past. How 
could it be otherwise, let those say who know men better 
than I do. Isn’t there a parable about a man who was 
possessed of a devil — an unclean spirit— and when that 
devil could not find legitimate rest, he returned to his old 
home with seven other devils, and the last state of the man 
was worse than the first ? Do these women think that the 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


323 


ceremony in the church is equivalent to the casting- of a 
devil out of a man ? Poor fools ! They know nothing of 
man ; no, nor of that particular devil either. What did I 
say just now ? — Legitimate rest ? The ceremony in the 
church means that, and nothing more ; it means that, if 
the man is as good as nine hundred and ninety -nine men 
out of every thousand, the seven wicked ones do not come 
upon the scene to destroy the peace of mind of the man — 
or the woman. Oh, I’m sick of the whole business ! I’ll 
never talk of it again. Georgium Sidus whispered it all 
to me at dinner. Though I don’t think it was quite nice 
of him. He made it all very amusing, I’m afraid I 
haven’t. I was lured into preaching. I’m going to bed. 
Good-night, my dear ; and I implore of you to consider 
that your marrying a man draws a wet sponge over those 
episodes in his past which he is the last to wish to recall ; 
yes, or to re-live, if you are worthy to be a wife.” 

“Love asks no questions,” said Philippa, gazing be- 
tween the bars of the fire, as the Queen Poppy yawned 
herself out of the room. 

She saw her heart in the midst of the flames, and mar- 
velled as greatly seeing it as the king’s servants did when 
they looked into the seven times heated furnace and saw 
the three children walking about un consumed. 

Her heart was in the midst of that fire, heated not 
seven times but unto seventy times seven ; and yet it was 
not consumed. 

It was an agony to watch it any longer. She sprang 
to her feet and paced the room with her hands locked 
tightly together. 

“Was it for this -was it for this, my beloved, that I 
sacrificed myself ? ” she cried aloud. “ Was it I who con- 
demned you to this mockery of marriage when we might 
have remained in each other’s arms for ever ? Have I 
been a curse to your life instead of a blessing ? Have I 
been the cause of your having the semblance of a marriage 
instead of the substance ? Why did I act honestly ? Why 
was I such a fool as to allow you to act honestly ? Honour 
— honour — honour — ” the crescendo of scorn was in her 


824 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


utterance of the words “ What is the consciousness of 

lionour compared to the rapture of love ? And now — 
now — ” she had stopped in front of the fire — “now my 
heart is in the midst of the flame, and yet it is not con- 
sumed’” 

She flung herself on the sofa, saying in a whisper : 

“ Madness — madness ! It is too late — too late now ! ” 

She lay there, her passion working itself out in silence 
for some minutes. Then she suddenly started up. Both 
hands were clutching at the back of a chair as she said, 
“ Is it — is it too late ? Is it ? ” 

She stood there— silent — rigid — for several minutes. 
Then she burst into a laugh that lasted for a long time. 
Before it had ceased she was sitting at the little writing 
table which she generally used to answer the invitation 
cards that Mrs. Bennett Wyse received. She scrawled off 
half a dozen lines of a note, put it into a cover, and then 
pressed the ivory of the hell. 

“ Bring me a glass of coffee iced,” she said to the serv- 
ant. 

He brought her the coffee in a short time, and laid it 
on a table beside where she was sitting reading a maga- 
zine. He had just opened the door again when she 
said, 

“ Oh, by the way, there is a letter to he posted to-night. 
I think it is on the Boule cabinet — no, here it is. You 
will see that it is sent at once.” 

The man assured her that there would be no delay, and 
he disappeared with the letter which she had just written. 

“ My dear Poppy,” said Philippa after lunch the next 
day, “ I am sorry to say that you and I must be parted for 
a day or two.” 

“ Nonsense, Phil ! what should I do without you ? 
Where are you going ? ” 

“ To Baymouth, and some place else. The fact is, my 
dearest, that last night I had a visit from another Bay- 
mouth man besides Teddy Haven, and I find that it is ab- 
solutely necessary for me to go to my old home, to look 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


325 


after my interests. I told you long ago how precarious 
were my interests there.” 

“Yes ; you told me that the majority of the merchants 
there were swindlers.” 

“I told you that they were clever business men, dear.” 

“You are too fond of hair-splitting, Phil.” 

“ At an}’^ rate, they require to be looked after, especially 
those who have charge of my estate — estate is the legal 
w’ord for a sixpence, Poppy, if the sixpence exists. It is 
also the legal word for a deficiency of sixpences.” 

“ And you want to make sure which lot is yours ? 
Don’t allow them to cheat you. Threaten them with my 
husband. That usually brings the cleverest of men to 
their senses. You are quite right to go. But what about 
Alfred Bentham ? ” 

“ If he should call do not tell him where I am ; I don’t 
want to let anything interfere with my enjoyment— con- 
sider the word as appearing between quotation marks — 
enjoyment of my holiday. In fact, I think that I should 
make better progress if my whereabouts were kept a 
secret.” 

“ I shall have no reason to speak about it. You will be 
back, of course, in time to go with us to Carlsbad in the 
middle of next month, and to Hyeres in December.” 

“ If I find it necessary to stay over a week. I’ll write. 
I won’t take Fanchette. ” 

“You should.” 

“ I shall be much better alone. Oh, I shall have a suf- 
ficiency of female protection in Bay mouth, never fear.” 

“ Please yourself. You have worked out your own 
emancipation. Will you have the brougham to take you 
to Victoria ?” 

“ A hansom will do very well. The ti*ain is at three 
twenty.” 

“At any rate, Classon will be at the station.” Classon 
was the courier. 

“ I don’t object in the least to Classon.” 


320 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

' INTRODUCES A BUNDLE OP MYRRH, AND CONCLUDES THE 

STORY OF A WOMAN, WITH A WORD OR TWO REGARDING 

ANGELS. 

At three fifteen she was met at Victoria by Classon, 
who gave directions about her luggage, and then handed 
her a ticket to Baymouth, and put her into a reserved 
compartment, in front of which an official was doing sen- 
try-go. There was a Lord Chief Justice of England, who 
referred with awe to his own power. He could unlock 
any door in England, he said. The power of the name of 
Mr. Bennett Wyse was correspondingly great in another 
way : it was sufficient to lock out the public from any 
number of railway carriage compartments. 

No thrill of apprehension went through her as the 
train started. She had no doubt of herself. She was 
supremely happy : happier than any bride around whose 
head the subtle perfume of the orange blossoms still lin- 
gers. 

At the junction fifty miles from London she got out of 
the train. Then for the first time her heart began to 
beat audibly. Would he be there to meet her ? 

She was not kept long in doubt. Maurice Wentworth 
was waiting on the platform, almost at hei* carriage 
door. 

“ My beloved ! ” he whispered. “ My best beloved ! ” 

‘‘ You got my letter ? you understood it ? ” she asked. 

“ I fear — oh, my love, I fear to tell you what I under- 
stood it to mean,” he said. 

“ Get two tickets for Brackenhurst,” she said. 

“ For Brackenhurst ? ” 

“ Yes, dearest. The train will be here presently. I 
will get a porter to take my portmanteau from the com- 
partment. My ticket is to Baymouth.” 

He went to the ticket office, and when he returned to 
her she was standing beside the carriage of the train 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 3^7 

into which her portmanteau had been thrust by the 
porter. 

“We shall get in now,” said she, and he helped her 
into the carriage. The guard said, “Thank you, sir,” and 
locked the door upon them. 

Not a word did they speak until the train had started ; 
and — then — then she was in his arms. 

“ My darling — my darling ! ” she murmured at one in- 
terval when his lips had unsealed hers. “ Oh, my love, I 
thought it was never going to come again. I thought 
that you were dead to me — and now — and now ” 

He laughed, and held her close to him kissing her eye- 
lids — they were wet with tears of unspeakable happiness. 
Her right arm was about his neck and her right hand was 
locked in his — his left arm was about her waist. 

They had no words to speak until the train had reached 
the next station. Then they unwound their arms, looked 
at one another and laughed with the delight of children 
at play. 

“ Now tell me,” he whispered. 

“ What have I to tell you ?” she said. “ I heard last 
night what it was that I bad doomed you to. Oh, my love, 
how could she know you — how could she pretend to love 
you and not give herself up to your arms ? I love you, 
Maurice, and I give myself up to you. We can have to- 
gether all the joy that life and love can give to us. While 
we are together she cannot put her marble hand between 
us.” 

“ And we are together— we are together, my darling,” 
he said. “ My love, my love, I consecrate my life to you. 
Having known the joy of your kiss my lips shall never 
touch those of any woman on earth.” 

And then the train started again, and there was no 
more speech between them. 

The village of Brackenhurst cannot be reached except 
by much travelling. It is far out of the beaten track of 
wayfarers, but a mile from the village there is a charming 
old hostelry kept by a man who was once a butler in a 
good family. His wife is an excellent cook. 


328 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


They reached this place about nine o’clock, and found 
a supper of pheasants and sparkling red wine awaiting 
them. 

It was at the same hour that Sir George Breadmore 
drove in a hansom to Maurice Wentworth’s hpuse in Lon- 
don. Mr. Wentworth was not at home, the servant said ; 
but Mrs. Wentworth would perhaps see him. 

Mrs. Wentworth did see him. 

“ Where is your husband, Alice ? ” said he. 

“ He is gone to shoot for a week along the coast,” said 
she. 

“ Is he ? ” Sir George laughed— the laugh of the Man 
who Knows Men. 

Yes ; he goes every year, he told me. Why did you 
laugh in that way ? ” 

“ I laughed because circumstances have permitted me 
to live for some years in the world, and to see men,’' said 
Sir George. “ Well, when your husband returns from his 
— his — sport, if you take my advice you’ll go to him and 
put your arms round his neck and tell him that you’ve 
been a little goose but you’ll never do so again.” 

“ I cannot do that,” she replied. ‘‘ Suppose that it was 
I who had sinned ” 

“ He would forgive you, and you would be happy to- 
gether. Do you call yourself a Christian woman, and yet 
refuse to forgive your husband ? ” 

“ There is a sin that a woman, if she is true to herself, 
should never forgive,” said she with some dignity. 

“It is not the sin that he has committed. Tell me 
what you expect your future to be, Alice. Do you really 
look forward to living with him for, say, forty yeai’s, and 
yet maintaining the same attitude towards him ? Think of 
it— forty years.” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps I may die.” 

“ And you are content that you and he should go 
through the rest of your days supported by the reflection 
that perhaps you may die ? Listen to me, for I know men 
and you do not. Are you willing to accept the respon- 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


329 


sibility of the sins which your husband will commit in 
the future ? ” 

What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean that you are driving him into sin with your 
eyes open. Great heavens ! Do you fancy that men 
leave their passions in the vestry — bundled up and 
chucked into a corner of the cupboard v^ith a parson’s 
surplice — when they come out from signing their names ? 
Forty years ! And you suppose that he will fold his 
hands in front of him and talk with you over your the- 
ories and your principles, when there are thousands of 
women of flesh and blood and no principles elsewhere ? 
Forty years ! And you will not sacrifice one of your pre- 
cious principles to save his soul from sin ! You will see 
your husband’s soul sent down to perdition, and you think 
that God will be willing to accept your immaculate theory 
as compensation for his lost soul ? Send your theories 
down to hell, instead of your husband’s soul — I speak 
seriously, as a preacher — and your God will be better 
pleased.’* 

She was sitting sobbing with her face in her hands — 
the very attitude which he meant her to assume before he 
had done with her. 

“ I know nothing about women,” continued Sir George. 
“ The man who fancies he knows anything about them is 
a fool. But I repeat that I know something about men. 
I wonder where your husband is at the present moment ? ” 

Her husband was just at that moment kissing the 
ivhite palpitating throat of Philippa Liscomh, listening 
to her low laughs of love as she whispered : 

“ ‘ A Bundle of Myrrh is my well-beloved unto me — 
a Bundle of Myrrh is my ivell-beloved unto me ! ’ ” 

And then came another low laugh, and then silence. 

“ Go away — oh, go away, and do not torture me any 
more,” cried Alice, through her tears. 

“ Your mother I knew and loved, my dear child,” said 
he. ” You and I have been friends since you were a year 


330 


ONE PAIR DAUGHTER. 


old. That is why I would do anything to secure your 
happiness. Now this is how you will be happy : when 
your husband returns to you, do not ask him where he 
has been, only put your arms around his neck, and tell 
him that you have been a little goose and ask him to for- 
give you — don’t say anything about forgiving him. That 
is the only way by which you and he can be happy to- 
gether. Good-night.” 

He bent over her head and kissed her on the forehead ; 
then he left the house. 

For a long time she remained in her tears. Then she 
looked up and said : 

“ He is right— he is right. Come to me, my husband 
— come to me wherever you are.” 

It was just at that moment that Maurice’s eyes closed : 
and he realised the completion of the quotation^ “ A 
Bundle of Myrrh is my well-beloved unto me.'’ 

He came to her in a fortnight. She met him at the 
door of his room. 

“ Maurice— husband,” she said. “I am your wife— I 
mean to he your wife. Forgive me for my cruelty.” 

“ I have nothing to forgive, Alice,” he said. “ You 
acted in accordance with your principles — you said so. 
You were right. I shall never kiss a woman’s lips again.” 

“ Not mine ? ” she cried piteously. 

“ Not yours,” he answered. “ I have learnt what love 
is. I shall not make a mock of it by kissing you.” 

“ What ! ” cried Mrs. Bennett Wyse. “ Lord Sandy- 
cliffe ? you say you are engaged to marry Lord Sandy- 
cliffe ? ” 

‘‘ On this day week, my Queen,” said Philippa. 

“ And what about Alfred Bentham ? ” 

“ He left me at Madeira.” 

“ A quarrel ? ” 

“Oh no. We agreed that we were not suited to each 
other. Then Lord SandyclifiPe came to me the day after 


THE WOMAN ACTS. 


331 


we returned, and I promised to marry him. It is to be 
kept a secret for some months at any rate.” 

'• The Countess of Sandyclitfe,” said Mrs. Bennett 
Wyse, musingly. “It is a splendid position. Take my 
advice and let my husband arrange about your settle- 
ments.” 

“ It would be so kind of him,” said Philippa. “ Oh my 
dearest Poppy, where should I be to-day if you had not 
been my friend ? ” 

“ The honour and glory of being your friend reflected 
upon me,” said the Queen Poppy. “ By the way, was the 
settlement of the business that took you away quite satis- 
factory ? ” 

“ Nothing could have been more so,” said Philippa. 

She married Lord Sandycliffe on November the twen- 
tieth, and a more exemplary husband than he is does not 
exist in this land of exemplary husbands. 

People say that it was the prompt, the exceedingly 
prompt, arrival of an heir to the Earldom that made a new 
man of Lord Sandycliffe. He is never happier than when 
sitting by the child’s cradle. 

He told its mother that the infant’s smiling in its sleep 
meant that the angels were whispering things to it. 

It is more than likely that he was right. But those 
angels have not taken to whisper things to Lord Sandy- 
cliffe, and it is quite unlikely that they will ever do so. 
Angels were never on speaking terms with Lord Sandy- 
cliffe. 

The nearest approach that he ever made to this intimacy 
was, he frequently says, when he married his second wife. 
Then he kisses the baby. 

But perhaps Sir George Breadmore, who knows so much 
about men, whispered something to Felise de Ligueres 
when she sat beside him at a dinner-party where people 
were chatting pleasantly about the exemplary husband 
and the exemplary wife, and the more than exemplary in- 
fant, that had proved by its entrance into the world how 
highly it appreciated the virtue of punctuality. A child 
22 


332 


ONE FAIR DAUGHTER. 


that begins life as an illustration of virtue is almost certain 
to be a prodigy, Sir George remarked, and then came some 
discreet chat. 

After dinner Sir George found his way to the side of 
Madame de Ligueres once more, and told her about that 
angel’s whisper which had attracted the attention of Lord 
Sandycliffe. 

Angels,” said she in a more contemplative manner 
than was usual with her. “ Angels ! I don’t know much 
about angels. But don’t we read that man was made only 
a little lower than the angels ? ” 

“I believe it is so written,” said Sir George. 

“ Ah, then all I can say is that I don’t think much of 
the angels,” said Felise. 


THE END. 








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